Under Supervised Conditions
by TheQuiltedFox
Summary: Some days, they have to make their own fun. Banner and Stark get an idea for an experiment in human behaviour, and try to fool themselves by calling it "science." Tony takes responsibility for Steve, while Bruce is (reluctantly) assigned to Barton. It becomes clear that their meddling is getting results, just not the kind they anticipated. Slow build as Banner works things out...
1. It Started as a Joke

**Hi there! Welcome to my very first Avengers fic... I really hope you like it! I've been reading so many amazing Avengers fanfics lately, I just thought it was time to make my own small contribution.**

 **It's rated for where it'll eventually go, but for now there's just the occasional bit of swearing.**  
 **I'll say this, I know where this story is going, I have it planned out, though that doesn't mean we can't have a little fun along the way. I don't know exactly how many chapters there will be yet, but let's say 10 or less for now. Also, watch out for random references sneaking into my writing (this first chapter features Jane Austen and the next chapter quotes The IT Crowd... )**

 **I've stuck with my native British English here (hope that's okay).**

 **Please feel free to comment - I love to read feedback or just to hear that you're enjoying the story :)**

 **Enjoy, x**

* * *

 **Under Supervised Conditions**

 **Chapter 1 - It Started as a Joke**

It started as joke, and got wildly out of their control. Quickly.

They were scientists. They really should have taken more time to think ahead.

* * *

Just another day in the lab, no interferences to attend to (alien or otherwise), Tony had dropped in on Bruce with the excuse of checking that he hadn't "gone green" or something, and then proceeded to spend the entire day looking over the doctor's shoulder, swiping at a tablet occasionally or bringing up results on the projected screen in the centre of the lab.

Bruce watched him with wry amusement. He liked to work alone, but had to admit the solitude got to him now and then. Of all the people in the tower, Tony somehow made him feel the most at ease, which, when he stopped to think about it, made no sense at all.

But Thor was rarely around, and when he was, his boisterous camaraderie and gallant speeches could make Bruce uncomfortable. He had nothing against the man, he had nothing against any of them really, but he always thought he was better at fitting into the group as the "other" guy.

It's the same with the archer. Barton's always got his back in the field, always looking out for him — for all of them — from his high vantage point. He's usually the one waiting around when Banner recovers, too. Barton keeps his distance though, whether it's for the sake of his own safety or Bruce's modesty, he doesn't know.

He doesn't know how to act around Nat. They've made their peace, and can even carry a lighthearted conversation, but he'll never be her first choice to pass the time with.

And like Thor, Steve's earnest, go-get-em attitude makes him feel like he's getting the mood down. He should allow himself to be closer with the Cap, he knows that. God knows they have enough in common with their past experiences, but it'd always been easier to apologise, excuse himself from company, and retreat to the safety (well, relative safety) of his lab. So until now, many of the people he lived with remained as caricatures of themselves, general ideas of what everyone assumed they'd be like, even though Bruce had the perfect opportunity to know them as actual, real, fleshed-out people.

Tony, on the other hand, had a somewhat loose idea of what personal space meant. Same went for subtlety. They're not really words in his lexicon... So he ends up in Bruce's lab quite often, playing his own music, having one-sided conversations, and generally keeping the mood upbeat.

Anyway, the joke started with a throwaway comment from Tony.

'I am so _bored_ with this dynamic,' he crooned.

Bruce raised an eyebrow, but didn't look up from his work, 'Well, I'm sorry I'm such a bore. You _could_ play with one of your other toys.'

Tony huffed out a laugh. ' _Not_ what I meant. No... I _mean_ there's no... ' he sighed. 'I don't even know. You could never bore me, Brucey, you know that. The constant, imminent threat of... greenness keeps it exciting.'

Bruce couldn't help looking up at his friend over the top of his glasses. Tony had his cheeks puffed and his arms held out, all with a glint in his eye.

'And I do _love_ to be excited.'

Banner scoffed. 'Tony. Go bother Pepper.'

'Can't,' he said, dropping his arms back to his sides, drumming his fingers impatiently against his thigh.

So Pepper was away with business again then, Bruce guessed. A thought slowly started to form as he turned to flip through his hard-copy files. While most of his work was digital and stored in the system, he found it somehow reassuring to have physical texts around, whether on his somewhat overflowing bookshelf or in his filling cabinet.

'What's going to happen... ' he began slowly, distracted by reference numbers and struggling to find the right wording, 'when — if there's another couple.' He could sense without looking that Tony was going to misinterpret that and get excitable, so he quickly added, 'Thor and Jane. Would you set them up in a suite or something?'

'I offered. They've got their own ideas,' Tony replied vaguely. 'It would be nice though. Pepper would like it.'

'What about the others? I don't see Nat settling down, but what about Steve?'

'Oh _god_ ,' Tony laughed, 'I mean, it's not like half the country wouldn't love to move in with the Cap. Women _and_ men. Can you imagine though, if it were up to him? Can you _imagine_ the type he'd bring home?' He had a gleeful tone to his voice, and without thinking Bruce joined in on the speculation.

'Some wide-eyed, freckled, country belle. She'd make us all pancakes on the weekend and wear a spotted apron.'

Tony was bent over with laughter, 'That was way, _way_ too considered, Doc. Do we even know if he's into women? I mean... I know he's got the vintage values, but... '

'I hadn't considered that... I can't even picture the type of guy Rogers would go for — '

'Barton!' Tony stood up straight, a wild glint in his eye as he met Banner's skeptical gaze.

'What? No... ' Bruce narrowed his eyes.

' _Come on..._ Katniss and the super-sized boy scout!' He seemed to wipe away a little tear of joy from the corner of his eye. 'It would be _hilarious._ '

'Nope. Not a chance.'

'Just a bit of helpful suggestion to all parties concerned... Show them how _interesting_ , how _appealing_ the other is, and bada-bing, bada-boom — '

' _Never_ use that phrase again.'

'Taken onboard,' Tony nodded.

'Okay... ' Bruce began, sliding on his stool to the end of his work bench. ' _I_ _ _f__ , and it's a big if, _if_ the Cap is that way inclined. And _if_ , by some miracle, Barton is too — '

'Oh he is,' Tony replied, his face a picture of confident sincerity.

'And how do _you_ know?'

'Seriously? The guy's _got_ to have stories to tell.' Tony adjusted his sleeve. 'But no. If you're asking. I don't know from experience.' His coy smile was pure smugness. Bruce rolled his eyes.

'So, let's say they are... '

' _Gay..._ '

'Yes, that.' He could hear Tony mumble something under his breath about getting him out of the lab more often. 'What's to say they'd even like each other?' Because Steve was red, white and blue, shiny and earnest. While Barton was purple and black, scarred, sarcastic and secretive.

'Science,' was all Tony had to offer.

'Science?'

'Like I said, we _suggest_ a certain idea, and we observe the result.'

'You're treating this like an experiment then? We really are your toys aren't we.'

'Hush now. You're having a riot, admit it. Okay, I say we split up, take one each. You got a preference? No? I'll take Capsicles. Birdie's all yours.'

'But I don't want Bar— '

'Science, Doc. Science. Maybe you'll make a friend. Take him out, butter him up — are you hungry? I'm starving — and just suggest how great the Cap is. I'll do the same, see if I can get him to arrange more of his "team-bonding" nights. What do you think, give it a month before they're sneaking in and out of the others rooms?'

'Fine,' Bruce sighed, 'but I still don't think they're compatible.'

'And I think, "science."'

'You're a danger to society,' he called out as Tony left.

'And I love you too,' Tony called back over his shoulder.

* * *

As he recalls their earlier conversation, Bruce honestly can't say if Tony was serious or not. But knowing Tony — as he thinks he does now — he's assuming it's going ahead.

JARVIS has the definitive answer, 'Doctor Banner, Mr Stark wishes to inform you that there is to be a _family_ dinner this evening.' The amount of attitude the AI manages to put into his voice never ceases to amuse him.

'Well that sounds very... Austen.' Bruce closes his files and rubs his eyes, 'sorry JARVIS, she's a novelist — '

'I understand the reference, Sir. I have both the complete works and unpublished manuscripts on file.'

'Of course you do... Wait, unpublished? Never mind.'

'Mr Stark wishes to inform you that this has been organised by the Captain, and that he had no part in it, whatever you may think.' There's a very slight pause, 'Shall I call for the carriage, Sir, or will you be riding in?'

Bruce snorts out a laugh, grateful that no one's around to hear the undignified sound. 'Smooth,' he says to the AI. 'No need for the carriage this time. Or the horse. I'll be up in half an hour.'

When he doesn't get a reply, he just assumes that the information has been taken onboard.

After a quick ride in the sleek lift to his floor, Bruce sheds his now crumpled blue cotton shirt, tossing it onto his rather worn yet much loved leather armchair.

In the vast en-suite which flowed on from the bedroom, he quickly washes his face and freshens up. A loose raglan shirt replaces the collared one, but the dress pants stay on. Bruce was never entirely sure why he dressed so smartly for the lab, but it did add some structure to his day, to dress for work, even when "work" also doubled as home. And then also as the place where he spent any free time.

The "family dinner" turns out to be a frankly ridiculous amount of Chinese take-out. Well, ridiculous by anyone else's standards. When you're feeding a team where half the group have bizarre metabolisms, there's not really such a thing as "over catering."

'Doc,' Tony calls out to get his attention, then nods towards the cartons of food he knows Bruce prefers. Tony's sharing a lounge with Cap, sitting in a way to block Steve from the rest of the group. The Cap is too friendly to even consider the invasion of personal space as suspicious.

Barton's chatting away animatedly _at_ Natasha, who is listening with a bemused smile while she eats.

He's not really sure where to sit. There's plenty of space — anything designed by Tony doesn't follow the rule of "less is more" so much as " _more_ is more."

It's pretty clear that Tony's got Steve cornered. Whatever it is he's saying has the Cap's eyebrows raised. Mid-sentence, Tony catches his eye and frowns, 'You know,' he announces loudly, 'the Doc and I had an idea today — '

'What, just the one?' Slow day?' Barton quips.

'Ha Ha,' Tony says sarcastically. 'About you, _actually_.'

Bruce feels himself flush red as he tries to guess where this is going.

'Doc, why don't _you_ tell Legolas all about his new bow... ' Tony looks very smug, as though he's made a giant leap forward in his plan. He returns his attention to Steve, speaking in a murmur once again.

Bruce is suddenly very aware of Natasha and Barton looking up at him expectantly.

'Ah... ' he flounders, 'I... '

Nat raises an eyebrow but shifts on the lounge to give him a place to sit on her other side. Barton has a keen glint in his eyes as he waits to hear all about his new — albeit _fictional_ — bow.

Bruce takes the seat offered, and takes his time carefully opening the first noodle box, but that only kills a very small amount of time. 'It's ah... I don't really know the specifics... ' he takes a mouthful of food, begins chewing, then thinks how odd he must look, so decides to swallow, but finds that he can't. Some sort of nervous reaction — when one finds oneself in an awkward social situation, choke. He manages through it but can feel his face reddening. 'There's a prototype though,' he looks over at Tony and Steve. The Cap is speaking, but he's also blushing, which always manages to look adorable no matter how often it happens. 'Yeah, Tony says to test it out in his workshop. Tomorrow.' He's going to take some pleasure in leaving Tony to race around putting something together at the last minute.

Barton makes a sort of surprised huffing sound.

'What?' Nat says, throwing a curious look at her friend.

'I got a revised design only, what, two weeks ago?' he shrugs. 'Unless this one does something _really_ crazy, I don't see how it can be improved on.' Barton springs up suddenly to grab some more food from the other room.

Natasha gives him a look. 'So this is nice. Will we be seeing more of you in the evenings?'

'Oh, do you mean "we" _all_ of us? Or "we" _you_?'

All she does in reply is give him one of her looks — steely but with contained amusement.

'Unless it can shoot air arrows, is that a thing? Like air riffles? That'd be _amazing_ ,' Barton appears again, falling back into the couch with three beers clasped in one hand, 'you know, like, no quiver, no running out of arrows, just, like, pressurised concentrated air. But on a Stark scale.'

Bruce has to admit, that actually sounds quite brilliant. The archer's initiative has genuinely surprised him.

Barton hands a beer to Nat and holds the other out to Bruce.

He shakes his head.

Nat pinches the second bottle from him and gracefully stands up from the couch.

'What are you rushing of to?' Barton says, giving her what could almost be called a sad puppy dog look.

'Things,' she replies simply, before glancing at Steve and Tony, still absorbed in their own little world.

Bruce notices the quick contact she offers Barton as she walks past him, touching the back of his shoulder with a light graze of her fingers.

Left as a pair, Bruce really doesn't know what to say. He leaves it a little too long before coming out with the worst possible option, 'I heard the weather... ' Ah, fuck, what is he doing, 'I heard it got hot out today.' That was bad.

Barton's genuine laugh catches him off guard though. Even the others look up. Barton's eyes are crinkled and there's a sympathetic look there too. Bruce sees Tony lean in to say something to the Cap, who then seems to concentrate on Barton's face.

'The weather? Jeez, Banner, really? I honestly couldn't say. I spent the day in the archery range. _Did it_ get hot out? No, really, I'm desperate to know. I won't sleep if you don't tell me Doc!' His smile is wide and crooked.

'I don't know. I just heard... I haven't been outside in a week... ' He chances a look at the archer, whose smile falters somewhat. 'I should... ' And Bruce stands awkwardly to leave, taking his barely touched dinner with him.

* * *

It's a few hours later, while he's thumbing through some notes, sitting up in bed still in his dress pants, that he remembers to text Tony.

 **12:13am BB to TS**

Barton's expecting to see his new bow today. Have fun.

 **12:13am TS to BB**

…

 **12:13am TS to BB**

Not happening.

 **12:15am BB to TS**

It's happening. You brought it up. I take no responsibility.

 **12:15am TS to BB**

Well that's very unlike you.

 **12:16am TS to BB**

Don't think we have to worry about Steve. That man can blush. I think he's ready to see the light.

 **12:16am TS to BB**

The hawklight?

 **12:17am TS to BB**

Night owl?

 **12:18am TS to BB**

NIGHT LIGHT! Night light!

 **12:20am TS to BB**

On reflection, that got away from me.

 **12:25am TS to BB**

Doc?

 **12:27am TS to BB**

…

 **12:32am TS to BB**

I'm not used to people falling asleep on me, Doc.

 **12:38am TS to BB**

I could to get Jarvis to play you music while you sleep.

 **12:38am BB to TS**

you don't actually do that do you?!

 **12:39am TS to BB**

We have a playlist.


	2. Down Here, It's Just Chaos

**Second chapter - In which Bruce has a tough time in crowds, Barton has a sweet tooth and surprising taste in cafes, Tony's still playing match-maker, and Steve still has no idea what's going on.**

 **A HUGE thank you to the lovely user who commented on chapter 1! I really appreciate it!**

 **It will be about a week until I get chapter 3 uploaded, but in the meantime, I hope you enjoy this installment. If you do, please leave a comment or some feedback, I'd really like to know what you thought of it :)**

* * *

 **Under Supervised Conditions**

 **Chapter 2 -** **Down Here, It's Just Chaos**

'You seen Stark?'

'Fuck,' Bruce startles at the sound of the archer's voice. He hadn't seen the slightest bit of movement, but Barton's already sitting directly across from him on the other side of the workbench.

It's only after he composes himself that he notices Barton's in his Hawkeye gear.

'Am I meant to be somewhere?' says Bruce.

Barton tilts his head slightly, not comprehending at first.

'No, this is to test the bow. Gotta know it'll work suited up. Besides... ' he stands and takes a step back, revealing that his Hawkeye vest is paired with low riding, grey sweats. The combination looks bizarre. 'Any excuse not to wear the pants, you know. They're a bit much.' He gives Bruce a look that says, surely you gotta agree with me.

Bruce bites back what he wants to say — that the Hawkeye suit, tight pants and all, would have a lot of admirers. But it's an odd thing to say to someone he hardly knows. Besides, he's actually surprised. He'd assumed Barton enjoyed it.

'Stark?'

'Sorry?'

'JARVIS won't let me into the workshop.'

'Oh,' and just as Bruce is about to suggest how to reach Tony, it hits him that there is no bow to test... Tony was true to his word and didn't follow through. 'Ah, there was a problem.'

Barton raises his eyebrows.

'An... overheating problem.'

'...Right.'

Bruce waits, not really sure how to send the other man out of his lab in a polite way.

Barton seems to get the message though and makes for the door, but at the last minute, he turns back. 'You hungry? I could use an excuse to get out for a bit.'

His first instinct is to refuse, but he can sense an impending growl in his stomach that will give him away. It's been fifteen hours since dinner anyway, and he hasn't stopped to eat in the meantime. So he gives a nod.

'I'll just — ' Barton pulls at his top, indicating he'll get changed. 'Meet in fifteen in the lobby?'

Bruce gives another nod and Barton leaves. He grabs for his phone as soon as the other man is out of sight.

 **03:26pm BB to TS**

Where are you?

It's not until he's getting out of the lift in the lobby that Tony replies.

 **03:33pm TS to BB**

On official business.

Barton's already there, eyeing the doorman warily. There's no doubt the doorman is rather more than a doorman, knowing Stark and S.H.I.E.L.D's security requirements. The archer's still wearing the sweats and sturdy looking boots, but the Hawkeye vest has been replaced with a loose, dark grey, v-neck sweater.

 **03:34pm BB to TS**

With Steve then.

 **03:34pm TS to BB**

Obviously.

Barton seems to have a destination in mind as he detours off the main streets and leads Bruce on a winding path to a coffee house down a narrow lane. It's unassuming but undeniably on-trend and cozy.

'I saw it during a mission,' Barton says by way of explanation, 'from over there.' He points high up into the New York skyline.

'Like Tony and the shawarma place then. Just without crashing into it first.'

'The window caught my eye,' Barton adds as he walks in.

Bruce notices the antique birdcages hanging in the window, and has to grin as he follows Barton in.

He orders a spiced pumpkin roll and black coffee while Barton wanders towards the cakes and pastries at the end of the counter, appearing to look for something specific.

'You holding out on me, Winny?' he says.

The older woman behind the counter — Winny, presumably — gives an over-dramatic sigh. 'All gone for today, pet.' There's a hint of an English accent in the woman's voice.

Barton groans and points out some other pastry, 'usual coffee.' He's paid before Bruce has a chance to offer. He leads them to a table near the window, one with a good line of sight down the lane way. 'They do this mud cake, I don't even know what it's called. There's a layer of like, fondant or something in the middle, and the bottom's sort of, I dunno, fudgy?' He's miming the layers with his hands as he talks, 'Win puts these bits of Turkish delight on top. So good.' He sort of growls and throws his head back.

This apparent sweet tooth comes as a surprise to Bruce, who had assumed Barton would be some sort of health nut.

The food arrives, delivered by a pseudo-british hipster who exchanges small talk with Barton but ignores Bruce entirely, and he's glad not to have to think of conversation topics as they eat. A few times, it looks like Barton wants to say something, but he just returns to his pastry or takes a sip of his own coffee (straight black, just like Bruce's).

When the plates are taken away, Bruce knows he ought to say something. 'Thanks.'

'You really haven't been out in a week, Banner?'

'...There's always something else to do.' And it wasn't like Tony had skimped on making the tower as comfortable and accommodating as possible.

'Losing a bit of colour though,' Barton quips, eyeing him over the top of his cup.

'I get enough colour to get by,' the corner of his mouth twitches, and he adjusts his glasses to distract from the little smile forming. Barton still picks up on the Hulk reference though and looks surprised.

* * *

As they're nearing the tower on their way back, Barton gets a bit pensive. 'It's weird being out at ground level.'

Bruce looks across at the other man as they walk, passing through clusters of tourists unnoticed, bikes speeding past and traffic humming at the lights. There's an overwhelming amount of noise, both visual and audible.

'It all looks much slower from up there. I can see all the spaces between things, you know. But down here, it's just chaos.'

And as soon as Barton says that, Bruce feels the claustrophobia of the open street. People. There are people everywhere, and just walking amongst them feels stupid and dangerous.

Bruce quickens his pace and doesn't look back to see if Barton's still behind him until he's back in the tower foyer, leaning heavily against the polished white walls, pain throbbing in his side, his breathing shallow and uneven.

When he senses someone approaching him, Bruce holds a hand out to keep them away without looking.

'No, stand down,' he hears Barton say with quiet authority. Banner turns around in time to see the doorman take his hand down from his earpiece.

'Doc?' Barton says lowly, to get his full attention. 'Banner? Scan in,' he walks ahead to the lift, placing his hand on the heat and print sensor to open the door. 'Banner, _scan in_.' The lift won't leave the lobby until all passengers are identified or accounted for.

Bruce flashes him a cautious look but makes it into the lift, clutching at the stretching, searing pain under his left rib. He's not going to change, he knows it, but it's a cruel reminder of how easy it can be.

Barton makes the doors close but doesn't give any indication to JARVIS to take them anywhere. Banner can see the pulsing blue light of the AI on the control panel, waiting for instruction.

'You good?' Barton's watching him intently.

'Good,' he replies, straightening as the pain in his side subsides to a normal, manageable level. 'Just... crowds.' He looks the other man in the eye, expecting to see judgement or pity, but instead there's understanding. Barton looks away quickly, his expression gaunt.

Of course he understands. He's had a taste of it with Loki.

'Was a stupid idea,' he mumbles.

'No,' Bruce replies, 'I appreciated it.'

Barton gives a curt nod.

'JARVIS, get Banner to his floor then take me to the range.'

'Understood,' comes the smooth reply, and the lift hums with movement.

As they approach his floor, Bruce remembers the point of his excursion. 'You know, you should show the Cap that place.'

'Never pegged the Cap for a coffee and cake kinda guy,' Barton replies, finally looking back at him with a glint in his eye.

'I think he'd like it.'

Barton scoffs, 'The look on Win's face _would_ be priceless. Captain America ordering a fucking cookie.'

Bruce smirks. 'Maybe mind the language if you take him.'

Barton gives a wicked smile as they arrive at Bruce's floor. As Bruce exits, he feels a hand clasp his shoulder in a friendly way. It feels like acknowledgement and acceptance and sincerity.

As he makes his way to his room, Bruce has to admit to himself that maybe Tony was going to be proved right twice — not only was there the possibility of bringing the Cap and Barton together, but a real chance of Bruce making a friend for himself.

He makes a mental note to keep that second part from Tony. There was no need to inflate the mans ego any further.

* * *

Bruce keeps to his lab for the next few days. The experience with the crowds on the street had left him jumpy and losing himself in his work for a while seemed like the most logical course of action.

He has trouble focusing though and ends up rereading the same notes again and again, or scribbling down random ideas on scraps of paper.

Tony drifts — well, barges — in now and then. Sometimes with an actual mechanical or scientific enquiry, sometimes with an extra coffee, and sometimes Bruce thinks he just comes by so he doesn't always have to talk to himself.

Bruce only ventures out of the lab to go to the main kitchen in the most unsociable hours, sitting alone at the bench to eat from bowls of cold leftovers.

He enjoys these opportunities to look out at the expansive views across the city from the kitchen or lounge windows without interruption.

A couple of times, he thinks he hears someone else moving around the shared floor, but no one ever appears, and Bruce makes his way back to his lab for a few hours sleep in his chair. He's slept in far more uncomfortable places, and has long been adept at making do.

He wakes with a start at the sound of Tony's voice.

'There's a whole suite there for you, Doc. You seriously telling me that _chair_ is the better option? Something wrong with the bed? I could put an ad on the front door. Housemate wanted, apply within.'

'The bed is fine, I just... dozed off.' He reaches for his glasses and puts them back on.

'Uh huh, you haven't been up there three nights straight. JARVIS blabbed.'

Bruce massages at the tight knot in his neck. Maybe the chair hadn't been the best idea. 'You don't need to check up on me.'

'Well, clearly, I do.' Tony passes him a large black coffee, then drifts over to the pile of notes and sketches on one of the counters. 'What you working on?' Tony asks.

Bruce can guess why he's interested. He watches the other man put his coffee down to examine the scribbles closer. Designing physical objects wasn't something the doctor usually did, at least not on his own.

'That's... Nothing. Just something Barton mentioned.'

'Air pressure? Neat idea. Don't know if it would work — '

'It was just an idea — '

'No, no, there's something there... ' Tony trails off. 'Oh, I made progress by the way. I got Cap and Legolas talking about training techniques. I think _a trip to the gym_ was mentioned...'

'What, you think they'll bond over a mutual appreciation of muscle tone?'

'It's perfect.'

'It's a cliché.'

'Ah, _yeah_ , because it works.' Tony looks back at the notes. 'Can I take these?'

Bruce gives a nod, and Tony gathers the pile together with a glint in his eye. Bruce can tell he's itching to get back to his workshop.

'Go.'

Tony flashes a smile and makes his way out, leaving Bruce with both coffees and a sore neck.

There's no time to enjoy the former, however, as the call for the Avengers to assemble comes through barely five minutes later.


	3. Detached Efficiency and Self Denial

**Here we go, chapter three - In which the team returns from a rather dull mission, Bruce is having a weird day and keeps ending up in closets (unsubtle metaphor alert haha), Barton will always be there to help, Tony is adept at playing mind games, Steve lets his guard down, and Natasha quietly has her own ideas of who should be with who.**

 **The events in this chapter begin a few hours after the end of chapter 2.**

 **It's an extra long one this time because I liked writing Barton and Banner in the same room together...**

 **The next chapter will be put up sometime in the next two weeks, and will possibly be from Clint's POV.**

 **Huge thank you to everyone who's left comments or subscribed to the story (it makes me so happy!) I hope you enjoy this instalment!**

* * *

 **Under Supervised Conditions**

 **Chapter 3 - Detatched Efficiency and Self Denial**

Exhausted, sore, and waiting for the quinjet to take off; Bruce watches the rest of the team wind down from their mission.

The mission had gone rather smoothly by their standards, so everyone has a lot of energy left. No civilians were harmed, no buildings were destroyed (unless you counted the warehouse, and Bruce sort of did. Though maybe the reason he was bothered was that a portion of the side wall had collapsed on the other guy as he was transforming back).

Tony's claimed a seat up at the controls, annoying Natasha, who's insisting it's her turn to fly the thing.

Steve is pacing back and forth saying how it couldn't have been that simple, surely.

'Well, speak for yourself,' mutters Barton, tearing off an adhesive bandage between his teeth as he patches up a bloody, yet superficial cut to his right forearm.

Bruce had been told after the fact that Barton had played a big part in not letting more of the building fall on him, and had suffered quite a few cuts and scratches as thanks for his efforts.

As the jet takes off, he watches Barton fiddle with the straps on the legs of his pants, tearing the fabric to gain better access to clean up the grazes. He's treating himself with a detached efficiency which had to be put down to experience.

Bruce is also left to treat himself, injecting a mixture of his own design to bring his heart rate down and temporarily mask the pain post-transformation. The side effect however, was a mild sense of euphoria, just a little buzz, but enough to make him laugh aloud at the simple sight of Steve Rogers hunched over and frowning at his phone while still suited up.

Barton glances over at him, giving a quick bemused smile at the sound, before looking at Steve on his phone. The Cap had a single cut on his ribs, already healed, but the blue material of his suit is torn, exposing the flesh. Bruce watches Barton observe Steve for just a moment too long before he tears off another strip of bandage with his teeth. Bruce puts his head back and closes his eyes, picturing Tony's smug reaction.

All of a sudden something doesn't feel quite right. There's a mixed feeling of being heavy and light all at once. It must be the dosage, he tells himself. It had been a very short trip out for the other guy, and now Bruce is paying the price. He closes his eyes and tries to clear his mind of the strange sensation.

'You don't look so good, big guy,' he hears Tony say from somewhere close above him.

Bruce just hums in reply, feeling groggy.

He opens his eyes slowly to see Stark and Barton observing him cautiously.

'Who's flying the plane?' he asks, his voice hoarse. His eyelids feel so heavy he has to let them fall closed again.

'No one. We landed.' Stark's voice.

'You were out cold.' Barton's voice. For a moment Bruce imagines a note of real concern.

Bruce takes a minute to adjust, realising that his neck is stiff and sore from falling asleep awkwardly. He must have been out for a while.

'How long?' He opens his eyes again, noticing that while Tony's now in his casual clothes, Barton's still a mess of torn Hawkeye suit and bandage tape.

'Hour, hour an a half,' says Tony. 'We couldn't agree if it was best to move you or not. I still think Steve should have taken him in. He is _so_ strong,' he adds, looking pointedly across at the archer, who simply looks mildly bemused.

Bruce actually groans at Tony's unsubtle trolling. 'No, this ... this was best.' He pulls himself up to stand, and has to put a hand out to steady himself.

His body was so used to expecting extremes. He hadn't generated the same adrenalin, or expended as much energy as a more chaotic battle would, so his sedative was having a more potent effect. 'I just need to get to my lab, it's just the sedative.'

'You're not sleeping in the lab, not in that chair. Bed.' Tony's tone is resolute. 'Get him to his room, Katnip, and don't let him out until either a, it's eight pm, or b, he goes green. And make sure he sleeps. I'll need his help tonight.'

If Barton has an issue with playing babysitter, he keeps it to himself.

Tony clasps a hand to the side of Bruce's neck, a sign of solidarity. He thumps Barton on the back on his way out of the craft.

'Good to walk?' Barton says.

'I'm _fine_.'

He lets the other man lead the way to the lift though, to hide the fact he's having trouble walking straight.

'It's really nothing,' he mumbles in the lift down to the living quarters. 'You don't have to do this.'

Barton eyes him warily. 'Normally I'd be the first to ignore Stark. But this time... '

'Why eight pm?'

'Huh?'

'Tony said I could come out at eight pm?' He actually has to turn away to stifle a yawn.

Barton smirks, 'Team _bonding_. Stark and the Cap planned it while we waited for you to come round when we landed. Reckon Stark's losing the plot with Pepper away.'

'I have this terrifying image of you all planning a group outing over my unconscious body.'

'Yup. Pretty much.'

Bruce just shakes his head as they exit on his level. The door to the doctor's suite opens onto a sort of general lounge space and kitchenette which is hardly used. To the right, through an open archway, is the single bedroom, which is ridiculously oversized. The walk-in-robe and bathroom flow on from there. The bedroom is so large that a section of it has evolved into a living room, with the chair, lounge, bookcase, coffee table (a couple of surplus ammo crates), and a large television all fit in there without making the space feel cramped.

It's Barton's turn to follow Bruce as he leads the way to the bedroom to put his glasses down safely on the coffee table. He's fighting the natural routine of simply stripping off his crumpled clothes and making for a hot shower, awkwardly aware of the archers presence. Barton's looking around the place, up and down, left and right, all while picking at the end of a strip of bandage tape on his arm.

'There's really no point in you staying,' Bruce says eventually, pinching the top of his nose where the glasses had been resting.

Barton looks him right in the eye, 'Don't care.' He makes his way over to the window which takes up the entire back wall of the room.

When it's clear he's not going to leave, Bruce decides to just get on with things, pulling out something soft to wear and getting changed in his excessively large closet.

The archer's frowning at whatever he's reading on his phone when Bruce returns to the bedroom. He hangs back and watches Barton chew at the side of his lip before typing something back. A reply arrives almost right away, causing Barton to shift on the spot, looking embarrassed.

'Nat,' he says without looking over as he types again. 'Checking in.'

Of course he knew he was being watched.

'Know what turned you funny?' he says conversationally, putting the phone away.

Bruce bristles at his words, not quite understanding. Surely he's not asking about the other guy...

'In the plane?' Barton clarifies, apparently realising he's said something wrong. 'Only, I've seen you after a dozen missions now, an you never black out like that.'

There no point explaining the technicalities. 'Wrong dosage. I just need to ride it out.'

'So no one higher up — '

'No one higher up needs to be notified. It's _nothing._ '

'Right.'

'You really were sent to babysit weren't you.' It's not a question. Bruce can feel an undercurrent of annoyance bubbling away in his gut. It's the other guy, trying to fight the sedative, finding any release he can. 'Draw the short straw to monitor the doctor? Clearly they weren't _that_ concerned if they didn't send in the guy in armour or the super soldier. You're not worried?' he says darkly.

'That I'm not like them? Not like I can't defend myself.' Barton's watching him carefully from across the room, looking right into his eyes.

His attitude sends a pulse of hot rage through Bruce's body. It comes from that place he tries so hard to ignore. 'He could kill you in a second,' he says darkly, 'what could you _possibly_ do?'

Barton glances out of the window, looking down as if to calculate distances and angles. 'Nothing,' he replies quietly.

Bruce feels groggy again, aware of the heaviness passing awkwardly into every limb. He makes it to the bed, leaning back into it slowly. 'You didn't even bring your bow,' he hears himself say, his voice sounding far away. He can make out the shape of Barton against the window as his vision goes hazy.

'I won't need it, Banner.' Barton crosses the room to sit on the edge of the armchair.

'Confidence or arrogance?' Bruce mumbles as he feels his head hit the pillow underneath.

' _You_ assume I'm unarmed,' he replies, 'Confidence or arrogance?'

It's the last thing Bruce hears before slipping back into unconsciousness.

He dreams in a violent swirl of colour and sounds. Nothing's clear or coherent, just an endless loop of patterns that drive him mad. He feels something though, a great wall of rubble crashing around him. No, not him. The other guy. Then it's just colours again as he drifts slowly awake. The first thing he notices is the dark sky outside his window, the amorphous patterns of the lit windows in the neighbouring towers coming into he becomes aware of the way he's positioned. He hasn't moved an inch since crashing onto his bed. Normally he'd be tangled up in the sheets or his arms would be flung to either side. He was usually a very restless sleeper.

'Time?' he asks aloud, feeling how dry his mouth is.

'Six forty-two.' Barton answers.

Bruce starts at the sound of the other man's voice. He'd expected JARVIS to answer, and for Barton to be long gone.

He'd been out cold for nearly five hours. He can feel the benefit of every minute of it though. Bruce sits up and runs his hand through his hair. It's tangled and grimy from the morning's events. He must look a mess. He reaches absentmindedly for his glasses which would normally be on the bedside table (and usually resting on top of a paperback).

Barton springs out of the chair, crossing the room to bring him the glasses from the coffee table. Bruce mumbles a 'Thanks.'

'You stayed?' he asks, 'hardly an exciting assignment, I'm sure.'

Barton huffs a laugh. 'I read, Stark called, I watched a movie ... _Steve called ..._ ' Bruce notices he lists that last thing off like it's the most unlikely, unexpected event to ever occur. 'Had a chat to JARVIS, filed my field report, handed you your glasses ... then started this list. Better?'

Bruce narrows his eyes as he processes the information. 'What'd Tony want?'

Barton — still standing at the end of the bed, still in his Hawkeye gear, and still taped up and covered in blossoming bruises — cracks a smile. 'Word for word; how's sleeping beauty, need me to come wake him up?'

Bruce drags a hand down his face, 'Not again,' he says quietly, 'he didn't, did he?'

'Hold up, I sense there's a story there ... but no.'

'Thank goodness for that.'

'Said I'd let him know when you came-to though.'

'Mr Stark has been notified,' JARVIS interjects in his cool, even tone. 'He says you're to meet the Captain and himself at the bar. I've put directions into your phone, Mr Barton.'

'Cheers.' Barton crosses his arms, 'If you're all good, I'm going to get cleaned up. You better be here when I get back, Banner.'

'Sorry ... about earlier ... if I was ... ' Bruce feels he owes the man who's stuck around to watch him a better explanation, 'the other guy wasn't happy with such a short trip out... '

'I get it. You're not you when you're hungry.'

'What?'

Barton shakes his head. 'Nothing.'

When Barton leaves, Bruce strips down on his way to the bathroom, stepping straight into the double shower. The hot water is good. Bruce takes a minute just to enjoy the sensation of it on his skin. The imbalance caused by the sedative has subsided to a tolerable level, something closer to what he's used to feeling every day. At least the groggy feeling has ebbed away. As he lathers his hair, he tries to piece together the events of the day; from Tony waking him up in the lab, the call out, the wall falling, Hawkeye appearing from nowhere to draw his attention and get him away from the collapse, sinking into his seat on the plane, the injection, Barton patching himself up, hearing Nat and Tony bickering, Steve pacing back and forth, waking up in the tower, getting annoyed at Barton for frankly no good reason...

He knows it's been getting cooler in the evenings as they move further into fall, even if he hasn't been out at night in a long time, so he dresses in dark grey slacks in a heavier material and a white hemp button-up shirt. The surprising warmth of the thin material is something he'd discovered during his travels and had made use of in India, when he needed to pack as light as possible.

'Doctor Banner, Mr Barton is making his way to your floor, should I allow him access?' says JARVIS.

Bruce is lost in a corner of the wardrobe trying to find the woollen over-coat he's eighty percent sure he hasn't destroyed already. 'Let him in.'

He continues to look through the piles of clothes in the robe. He doesn't remember buying most of these himself. Someone, either Pepper or Tony he suspects, keeps restocking and adding to his wardrobe.

'What are we looking for?' comes Barton's voice from somewhere close behind him.

Bruce flinches a little, nearly hitting his head on a rail. 'You're too good at that. Sneaking up... '

'Well, that's sort of the point, right?' He moves in closer to look over Bruce's shoulder. 'So what is it? Run out of purple shirts? Purple umbrella? It's gunna rain later, I'll tell you that now — '

Bruce stands up straight, clutching the coat, 'Here we go — oh... ' he takes in the sight of the archer.

Barton's playing with the cuff of his shirt under his sleek blue jacket. He catches Bruce looking at him and shifts on the spot, 'What? I looked up the address, it's a fancy place.' He turns and makes for the leather armchair, falling back into it like he's absolutely at ease in the space.

Apart from some scratches on his jaw and a bruise just visible under the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, you'd never know the extent of the superficial damage from the wall collapse. Bruce is trying to read the other man's expression as he shrugs on the woollen coat and reaches under the sleeves to pull the shirt cuffs back down to his wrists. Impatience?

'Thank you,' he hears himself say without thinking.

Barton frowns, looking at him.

'With the wall. It was clever, to taunt him like that to get him moving out of the way. You didn't need to... If he'd caught you... '

'You remember that?'

'Bits and pieces.'

Barton nods.

As they wait for the lift, he's aware of Barton looking at his collar. When he goes to check it, feeling self-conscious, Barton beats him to it and quickly reaches both hands around the back of Bruce's neck to fix up the collar of his shirt and coat. He deftly runs his hands over the coat's lapels to smooth them down against his chest.

Bruce just frowns and clears his throat.

Barton laughs at his perplexed reaction, 'What? It bothered me.'

As they enter the lift, Bruce stays close to the door, to conceal the flush that is creeping up his neck. That shouldn't be his reaction to something as insignificant as that. He just wasn't used to people touching him in a way that wasn't detached or scientific. That was it. Yes, that was it.

* * *

They meet Natasha in the foyer, she watches them with great interest as they approach from the lift. Because they're early and don't really need to worry about being noticed on the street, they decide to walk. Sometimes it's nice to be the more anonymous faces in the team. Even though Natasha and Barton may have appeared in news footage, Nat's able to alter her appearance in the most subtle of ways that sometimes leaves even Bruce doing a double-take. And Barton, well, dressed in a suit he looks unrecognisable.

Natasha's in a very good mood, unusually lighthearted and chatty, bouncing ideas back and forth with the other two the entire journey. Bruce enjoys the company, and does far more listening than talking, instead trying to silently rationalise why his eye keeps being drawn towards the other man.

* * *

When they arrive at the bar (it might be posh, but it's still a bar) and meet the others, Tony uses the excuse of checking his phone in his pocket to lean in to talk to him. 'Nicely done, Doc, he scrubs up well,' he nods towards the archer.

Bruce doesn't bother to explain he had no part in it.

They pile into the u-shaped booth, Nat first, because she likes to be in the middle, then Barton instinctively sits next to her. Bruce goes to follow, but Tony blocks him off and diverts him to sit on the other side of Nat, before following himself. Steve takes the seat across from Tony, and next to Barton, who gives the Cap a curious look.

Tony's clever. Throughout the night, barring trips to the bathroom, he's the only one who fetches the drinks or food, parting with some conversation starter between Bruce and Nat, leaving Barton and Steve to talk amongst themselves. When he does return, he keeps Bruce occupied and tries to bring Natasha in too.

Bruce knows he's being played along in Tony's game, but he goes along with it for his own reasons.

The conversation between the two men on the other side of the table comes in bursts. From what Bruce can hear, they stick to quite general topics; life in the tower, things they've noticed about S.H.I.E.L.D, places they go in their down time. Steve mentions a deli he would frequent before moving into the Avengers tower which leads Barton to talk about the cafe and Win. He starts talking about that cake again, and even though Bruce is talking to Nat, it seems they're both listening to the other conversation, because Natasha rolls her eyes as if to say, "not the cake again."

There's an awkward pause before Barton invites him to check it out one day. Steve accepts right away.

Bruce glances over at the archer quickly, who's looking bemused and turning his glass on the table. Steve now seems keen to keep the conversation going, and they soon discover a shared interest in parkour. Bruce notices the way Steve refers to Barton by his first name. It doesn't sound right. Doesn't quite suit him.

At one point, Tony's away getting another round, and Steve goes to the bathroom, leaving just the three of them. Barton runs his hands across his face and through his hair.

Natasha turns to face her friend, 'Good night?'

'Yeah ... unexpected,' he looks at Bruce quickly.

'Rogers is enjoying himself,' she continues.

Barton gives her a look. Nat raises an eyebrow ever so slightly, and he shifts in his seat looking almost guilty.

Those two have a language between themselves that Bruce can never hope to comprehend.

* * *

After a few hours they decide to call it night, mainly because a couple of "fans" of Captain America keep trying to get their attention, though Bruce thinks it's because Tony's a little insulted that no one is trying to bother him.

While Steve goes over to be the pleasant man that he is and say hello, and Natasha and Tony get sidetracked on the way to the exit while bickering about who gets to pilot the quinjet next time, Barton follows Bruce out onto the street.

It had been raining while they'd been inside. Bruce pulls his coat back on and pushes his hands deep into the pockets.

Barton crosses his arms across his chest and looks past Bruce into the street beyond.

'You avoiding me?' he says suddenly.

'What?' says Bruce, taken aback, 'I ... No... '

'Right.'

'You looked occupied. I didn't ... want to interrupt.'

Natasha and Steve emerge from the bar, Tony close behind.

'So ... that's okay?' Barton says, looking him in the eye.

Bruce blinks back, trying to work out what's being asked. He knows he's taking to long to respond. 'Why wouldn't it be?'

Barton smiles and shakes his head before turning to face the others approaching them.

As they walk through the backstreets (to minimise the chance of Tony or Steve being recognised), Rogers and Barton end up at the front, Tony loitering around on Steve's other side to force them closer together. From behind it's like watching bad choreography.

Bruce falls back to walk with Natasha.

'Ever feel like your in a high-school drama?' Bruce says to her.

She gives him a blank look. 'I wouldn't know what that's like.'

'Right ... sorry.'

Ahead, Barton looks back at them before leaning in to say something to Steve. The Cap laughs unselfconsciously and knocks his elbow playfully into Barton's side, sending the other man off balance for a step or two.

Tony spins around to make a grand gesture to Bruce, holding his hands out and grinning wildly. It's a look that screams, _what'd I tell you!_

'But I think I understand the sentiment,' Natasha adds quietly, so only Bruce can hear.


	4. Methods of Release

**Chapter four, the morning after their trip out; in which Natasha seems distracted, Bruce can't focus, Clint attempts to move forward, Tony has no idea that his meddling is getting results, and the good Captain reveals his unexpected methods for relieving tension.**

 **The events in this chapter begin a few hours after the end of chapter 3.**

 **A bit of a delay with this chapter, sorry about that! It was more difficult than I anticipated writing from Barton's POV (and it took an unnecessary amount of time to decide on what he would be reading in this chapter haha)**  
 **It may be about a month until the next chapter... I'd like to get it done before then, but I have other things I need to be writing (sigh).**

 **In the meantime though, THANK YOU, thank you, thank you to all you lovely readers who are commenting or favouring/following! I appreciate it so much!**

 **I hope you enjoy this instalment... and no matter what happens, know that everyone will come to their senses soon enough...**

* * *

 **Under Supervised Conditions**

 **Chapter 4 - Methods of Release**

Clint couldn't sleep. Parts of the day were replaying in his mind as he lay sprawled out on top of his bed sheets. Why the fuck had he fixed Banner's collar? He could still recall the texture of the woollen coat under his fingers. What was that about? Well, he had a suspicion, but he had to push it out of his mind...

When Steve had spent the whole night talking to him, giving his attention to no one else but him, Clint had asked Banner if that was okay...

'Why wouldn't it be?' He'd said.

 _Why wouldn't it be_ ... translation, why would I care?

Natasha sometimes joked Clint's problem was that he was too ready to feel. Except he couldn't see the humour in it. It was a weakness, and sometimes when Nat brought it up, he suspected she saw it the same way.

Was it possible to be a thoughtful assassin? How long could that last?

Anyway, he'd thought there'd been ... something. But it was just the doctor being friendly. He'd made it into a big thing because he wasn't used to it. He understood Tony, he was learning more about the Cap everyday, and Nat was like an extension of his own body and mind. But Banner? Well, the Hulk was easier to fathom.

 _'Why wouldn't it be?'_ Okay, Clint knew the score now. That fleeting feeling of attachment to Banner was just because he'd spent hours watching over him. He could even blame Nat's texts asking how things were going as if she expected there to be something interesting unfolding.

With things slowly clearing in his mind, Clint fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

Breakfast occurs closer to the middle of the day... Tony had been indulgent with the drinks at the club last night, and it's clear some of the team are faring better than others. Even Nat seems a little sluggish, hunched over her toast and chewing slowly. And the girl knows how to handle her liquor. Clint makes a mental note to ask if there's something else going on, something he missed last night while she'd been talking to Stark and Banner.

Of course Steve's ready to seize the day though, all chipper and full of energy. If being a super soldier means a life of no hangovers or food-based indulgence regrets, well then, sign me up Clint thinks.

Banner's the last of the team to emerge, looking like a hot mess in his crumpled dress shirt. He's teamed it up with dark sweats though, so maybe he didn't fall asleep completely dressed.

'Teenagers, eh?' says Tony, 'Sleeping all day and drinking all night.' He gives Banner a playful shove against his shoulder.

The doctor smirks. 'I made the mistake of letting this strange man buy me drinks all night. This strange, _old_ man.'

'Careful,' Tony says tersely, raising an eyebrow.

'And did you put out?' Clint adds sarcastically without thinking.

Banner honestly looks a little terrified.

Nat's only stopped from laughing by the mouthful of toast she's just bitten off.

Clint goes to say something to the doctor, apologise maybe, but remembers his earlier internal reasoning and settles for watching Tony move on to pester Steve who's concentrating very hard on using his laptop.

It's a bit outdated by Stark standards, but Steve insists on it over the touch-screens or holographic interfaces the two scientists favour. His sheer look of focus and determination as he uses the sensor pad to scroll is quite endearing really.

Tony's standing too close over the Cap's shoulder, slurping on his coffee right next the other man's ear. Either it doesn't bother him or Steve's too polite to tell him to take a fucking step backwards. That's what Clint would do in his place.

'Top Ten NY Parkour Hot Spots,' Tony reads out from the screen. Steve slams the top of the laptop down. 'Buzzfeed? _Seriously_?'

Steve moves to sit on one of the tall stools behind the kitchen counter. He opens the laptop again and ignores Tony who's started talking about how much planning went into the design of the gyms and practice ranges in the tower, but apparently all that can be surpassed by a park or derelict warehouse.

'Why don't you just go back to the site from yesterday?' Tony finishes sarcastically.

Steve glares a him in a way that very obviously says, _leave me alone_.

Clint clears his throat, 'You won't find anywhere good online. All those places will be crawling with amateurs — actually, they probably will _literally_ be crawling,' he laughs at his own joke even if no one else does. 'I'll make you a list.'

'Can you show me instead?' Steve replies brightly, before quickly becoming flustered for no apparent reason.

'Ah, yeah? Sure. When — '

'Today?'

'Today? Right. Yeah. Okay.' Clint's suddenly very aware of three pairs of eyes watching their exchange. He doesn't look up to see their individual expressions.

Steve closes his laptop again and slides smoothly off the stool. 'Leave in an hour?'

Clint nods, and the the other man exits the room.

He's really expecting Tony to say something cocky, but it's Banner who eventually breaks the silence, saying something about needing to check plans in Tony's workshop when it's convenient.

'Give me ten minutes and we can go down,' Tony says.

Clint makes a move to leave and Nat gives him a look. He offers her a bemused smile in return, one that only she can see, and puts his hand lightly against the back of her neck as he passes her on his way out.

There's a huge amount of trust involved in their little gestures and touches. If he were anyone else, getting so close to Natasha would result in serious injury. Or death. But they've built up their non verbal language over years of friendship. It helped them both on the field and off of it.

* * *

He meets Steve in the foyer an hour later. Clint had wanted a bit of time in the gym to warm up.

The Cap's dressed very casually with an oversized pale blue beanie covering most of his blond hair. He's got to blend in if he doesn't want to draw attention. He still does though, just for a different reason. It's impossible for him to look anything other than attractive no matter what he wears.

'My bike or yours?' Steve says brightly.

'You kidding? More hassle than it's worth. We're walkin' Rogers.'

Clint leads the way and Steve follows with a boyish grin.

'Maybe Tony was right,' Steve says, 'the warehouse would be great.'

'Nah, it'll still be swarming with agents. Clean-up on those things can go on for days.' He rounds the corner to where he plans to start their course. The plan is to aim for the same end point and stick together, but use their own techniques to get there.

'I saw what you did for Bruce yesterday. With the wall. That was close.'

Clint smirks, 'It's my job.' He slaps Steve's shoulder and starts running. There's barely a delay before Steve's ahead of him.

Steve might have an unnatural advantage, and be more willing to take risks, but Clint's been doing this for years. He lives for those moments when there's no ground below him and he imagines he's in flight.

* * *

Somehow Clint beats Steve to the endpoint, an old redbrick factory with a caved-in roof. It's been earmarked for demolition for months now, so Clint treats each visit like the last.

'That was ... that was _good_ ,' says Steve, resting his hands on his knees to steady his breathing. If even Captain America's out of breath, then it really must have been a workout.

Clint leans against a wall, feeling the chill creeping across his body as the air cools the fine sheen of sweat on his skin.

'We still gotta get back yet,' he says with a laugh.

Steve looks up at him with a grin, 'I might need a minute.'

'Yeah? Well then I'll need ten.' Clint takes in a deep breath and let's it out slow, trying to regulate his heartbeat. 'Fuck I sound old. Sorry,' he adds, anticipating a telling off for swearing from the other man.

But Steve waves his hand, dismissing the apology. 'I've been getting used to it. Honestly, I just keep it up to annoy Tony. Actually, I... ' He trails off, looking embarrassed.

'What?' Clint says, curious.

'I do it too ... just now and then. I heard that for people who don't normally curse, it's a great way of releasing tension.'

'The internet told you that, huh?'

'A documentary. I don't need as much sleep as the rest of you. Leaves a lot of time to fill.'

'What about those of us who swear all the time? How are we meant to release tension?' Clint means it as a joke, but the Cap looks a little nervous.

'I've heard there are other ways.'

'Oh, well see now I'm curious, how else does the good Captain release tension?'

'I box. I draw... Tony says I'd do better to find a girl. Or, or a guy.'

Oh? _Oh_... Steve's not meeting his eye, and Clint's glad, because now it's his turn to get flustered. Even though there's been lighthearted speculation between the rest of the team, this is definitely the first time Clint's heard it from Steve himself.

'I usually just sit on the edge of a very tall building.' Clint says after a short silence.

'How does that _relieve_ stress!' Steve says bemusedly, snapping his gaze up to meet his.

'It's beautiful up there.' Clint doesn't feel embarrassed to admit it.

'No ... that's not for me ... I don't like heights much.'

'You lived on a helicarrier,' Clint retorts, offering a smile.

'Yeah, a helicarrier that nearly fell out of the sky.'

Clint can't help but laugh at the other man's wide-eyed expression. 'Good point.'

* * *

It's dark by the time they get back to the tower. They'd stopped off at a little deli Steve liked to grab diner. They part ways and go to their own apartments to shower and change.

Clint processes the new information he's learnt about Steve today as he towels off and pulls on a fresh pair of sweats and a faded S.H.I.E.L.D training tee. It's so worn, he doubts anyone else would be able to guess what colour it used to be. He got the sense last night that Banner had someone else restocking his wardrobe. Clint's not sure if he's insulted or grateful that no one's doing the same for him. Sure, a smart tailored suit somehow turns up when he needs to look presentable, but other than that...

No one seems to be bothered that he never returns the expensive suits. He'd even worn one of them last night to the bar and no one had asked for it back. They wouldn't get it if they did. It was his favourite now.

He's made plans to meet Steve in the lounge for a beer later that night, but decides to head over early with a paperback he'd started rereading a few nights ago. Normally he'd stay in his room or find somewhere out of the way — like the roof — but tonight he feels drawn to the living quarters.

The halls are quiet and as he sits into his favourite couch he vaguely wonders where everyone is.

His novel's good, he'd forgotten how much he enjoyed Orwell's writing, in fact he doesn't realise how absorbed in it he is until someone clears their throat in the doorway.

'Sorry,' Banner says. He's holding a small stack of files under his arm and a bottle of some fancy imported beer in his hand. 'If you don't want company... '

Clint snorts, 'Mi casa es su casa es Stark's casa.' He gestures at the couch opposite him, and Banner takes a seat.

They both begin to read, though Clint finds he's still on the same page after ten minutes. He keeps rereading one of his favourite lines, and can't draw his eyes away from it. _No emotion was pure, because everything was mixed up with fear and hatred. Their embrace had been a battle, the climax a victory._

'You recover from last night?' he says in an attempt at light conversation. 'Tony sure knows how to have a night out.'

Banner closes his files. Clint notices he's still on the first page.

'It wasn't really my sort of place,' Banner says slowly. 'But it was good to get out.'

Steve enters looking refreshed. He looks from Banner to Clint and smiles at them both as he sits down next to the doctor.

'Twice in one week, new record?' Clint says, referring to Banner's trips out.

Banner frowns and Clint wonders if he's forgotten the cafe he showed him last week.

'I think it is,' he eventually says. Something about the way he says it makes Clint's heart sink. He can't stay annoyed at the guy.

JARVIS' voice interrupts the silence that follows. 'Captain, Director Fury has requested your attendance in Mr Stark's office for a conference call.'

'When?'

'He's already on the line.'

Steve jumps up from the couch with a mumbled, ' _Just great._ '

Clint manages to get through the page he'd been stuck on and turn over to the next. Winston and Julia are leaving the field. Clint always thought it would probably have been safe to go back there, even if the characters didn't.

'Thank you for yesterday,' Banner says out of the blue. 'I don't know if I said that already, but I appreciated it.'

'Not a problem, Banner.'

The doctor nods and takes a swig of his drink. 'How was your day with Steve?' He sounds genuinely interested.

'Fine. Great, actually.'

'That's ... that's good. He's a good guy.'

Clint hums and goes back to his book. Banner downs the last of his bottle and goes back to his file.

Steve returns to the lounge an hour later looking rattled and irritated. He sinks into the other end of Clint's couch.

'Tony or Fury?' asks Clint.

'Sorry?' Steve says sharply.

'Who's got you riled up, Tony or Fury?'

Steve shakes his head and looks to Banner. 'I know Tony's your best friend here.'

'Well... ' Banner looks like he doesn't know what to say to that. 'I know he's insufferable.'

That gets a quick grateful smile from Steve.

'He was making Fury mad just for the fun of it. And I look like I'm going along with it because I can't stop him.' He runs both his hands through his hair, leaving it at funny angles.

'Tony likes ... He likes to rub people the wrong way.' Banner says slowly.

'No, he likes to mess with them for his own amusement.'

'He doesn't mean any harm by it,' Banner says cautiously. 'I'll have a word to him,' he adds, standing to leave.

Clint swears the doctor actually looks a little ... guilty?

'He listens to you.' Steve sounds like he's sulking.

'I don't know if that's true.'

Steve angles towards Clint once Banner goes, he can feel the Cap watching him as he closes his book and lays it on the coffee table.

'I think Banner's right, Tony doesn't mean any harm.' He turns to face Steve. 'I wondered if there was some trouble with Pepper maybe.'

Steve huffs, 'Doubt it. He goes on about her enough. He's just so ... fucking irritating.'

Clint raises an eyebrow. Hearing Steve swear is like hearing a child test out a new word he's learnt at school on his parents.

'It's a start,' Clint says, grinning at the other man. 'Let it out.'

Steve chews at his bottom lip for a moment. When he meets Clint's eyes again, it's with unexpected intensity. 'About those other methods of tension release... '

Clint has enough time to frown and tilt his head before Steve lunges forward.

For someone who blushes so easily — and Clint can feel Steve's cheeks go hot as he cups his face — the kiss is anything but chaste. It's definitely not the first time Steve's done this, and as the kiss deepens he wonders who had that honour, and whether it was in this century or the last.

Steve pulls away first, looking absolutely shocked by his own actions. 'Sorry. Sorry, I don't know why I did that — '

'Don't,' says Clint, straightening in his seat. 'I just wasn't expecting it.'

There's a noise from the kitchen, the fridge or something.

'I should probably... It's late.' It's only ten thirty, but Clint grabs his book and stands. Steve's got his face buried in his hands and the sight makes Clint feel awful. 'Up,' he says to Steve, 'come on, up.'

Steve gets to his feet reluctantly and keeps his gaze focused on anything other than Clint.

'I'm not going because of what you did, or because I didn't like it. Because I did. Steve, it's fucking hot, alright.' He sees Steve roll his eyes at that.

'Serious. I'm going because I don't know if you did it for the reason you think you did.'

Steve finally looks him in the eye. It's an incredulous, focused stare, the kind that makes Clint look away and shift on the spot.

'That doesn't make any sense, Clint.'

Clint frowns at the floor, 'Really? I could swear it does.' He grabs his book and makes for the door, but hesitates for a moment before returning to Steve, who's watching his every move.

Very confidently, Clint grabs a fistful of the Cap's shirt to pull him down a few inches to match his height, and puts the other hand to his jaw. He makes sure there's nothing left open to interpretation about the kiss. It's not out of pity, it's not to make amends. He pulls away before he really wants to, giving him enough time to think of what to say.

'Fine, I'm going because I don't know what I'll do if I stay.'

Steve smiles and looks a little pleased with himself, but lets Clint leave without another word.

Clint tries to reason with himself as he walks to the elevator. Maybe he'd lied. Maybe that last kiss wasn't for the reason _he_ thinks it was either.

Or maybe it was a good idea.


	5. Secrets and Agendas

**Chapter five, in which Clint sets one thing right, Steve has his own agenda, Tony would like a bit more advance notice, Natasha's got her priorities straight even if no one else has, and Banner's trying to keep something on the down-low.**

 **Oh, and Coulson's still as much of a fan-boy as ever.**

* * *

 **So, apologies for the HUGE delay between chapter 4 and 5 ... that won't be happening again! Thank you so much to all those who have commented and/or followed in the meantime - it always makes me smile to see people enjoying my stories!**  
 **You may have to read back a bit to refresh the ol' memory before starting this chapter (which is a nice long one to make up for the delay!)**

 **Also, please note that the timeline between Fury or Coulson being the director of S.H.I.E.L.D is a bit... wibbly wobbly, timey whimey. I decided to have it the way it is so Phil can be more hands on with the Avengers. Let's put it down to fan fic creative licence, eh?**

 **I really hope you enjoy the update, and as always, feel free to leave comments :)**

* * *

 **Under Supervised Conditions**

 **Chapter 5 - Secrets and Agendas**

Clint rolls over in bed, waking from a dream about flying and crashing, the sheet twisting and knotting around his bare leg, sending up a dull ache. He's a light sleeper. Sleep short, sleep light, that's the way it has to be in his line of work. He'll still dream though. Entire epic sequences will play out in a matter of minutes. But the slightest out-of-place sound will wake him.

It's early. The colour's only just starting to creep into the sky. Something else entirely starts to creep into Clint's mind...

It's funny how different things look the morning after the night before.

Yep. He's beginning to replay last night thanks to that old friend, _perspective_.

'Awwfuck... '

He can see it, he's talking to Rogers in the abandoned factory. The Cap's grin and playful tone still a pleasant memory.

Why couldn't he just leave it there?

 _The kiss_.

No, wait. He didn't even initiate it. But he didn't really stop it either.

He hadn't been drunk. He hadn't been on some post-mission adrenaline high. He'd just ... gone with it. Captain Steve freaking Rogers America. How was he meant to explain to the most earnest man in the country that he'd simply taken advantage of the situation?

He untangles from the sheet and pulls himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. He notices the grazes and bruises forming from the warehouse scrape a couple days back. The bruising runs all the way from above his knee to top of his thigh (thankfully avoiding the groin). He runs his palm along the purple and green marks, digging in to test the pain. There's a deep scratch high up on his thigh — the one he'd had to tear his costume open to get to — which is looking a bid dodgy, and honestly, not feeling quite right. Something to worry about later.

There's no messages on his phone. So that's a relief. Although it _is_ only 7am.

Where would Steve be at 7am?

Clint pulls on boxers (the scratch is a little too tender for his normal trunks), light grey sweats, a tee shirt, and heads for the lift.

* * *

Natasha's in there when the lift doors glide open. Of course she would look wide awake and presentable while Clint is still combing his hair with his fingers.

'Banner's in the kitchen,' she says as he steps in. Clint notices she's heading for Tony's main workshop. It's the only floor selected.

'Okay... ' he draws the word out, waiting for further information.

Nat looks across at him. 'You're not looking for Doctor Banner?'

'No?'

She eyes him and simply hums.

'What?' Clint says flatly. He can't stand it when she does this coy act.

Nat rolls her eyes. Apparently that's all she's offering by way of answer.

'So I may of done something,' Clint says eventually, to move the conversation along.

'Something you regret.' It's not even a question. Nat knows him too well.

'Yup.' Clint scratches the bridge of his nose quickly.

'And?'

' _And_ , I could use your advice.' They stop at Tony's workshop floor.

'If it's about what I think it is, I can't help.'

'Can't help, or won't help?' Clint says coolly. 'Wait. I don't even know what you mean — '

Nat shakes her head — her loose red waves just brushing her shoulder — and glides swiftly out of the lift without a look back.

'Mr Barton?' JARVIS' smooth voice fills the space. 'You haven't selected a floor.'

'Right. Sorry. Main gym.' A little blue line lights up on the tower diagram.

* * *

Clint hears him before he sees him. The rhythmic thump of fist connecting with target. The metallic jostle of the punching bag chain dancing in its fastenings.

He considers announcing himself. He's not used to making a noticeable entrance. Should he knock? Clear his throat?

Steve is working his way around the punching bag, light on his feet and precise with his aim. He stops and steadies the bag when he notices Clint. His cheeks redden. 'Clint. Did you ... Did you want the space?'

Clint tilts his head and scratches a phantom itch on his elbow. 'I was looking for you actually.' Right, because that isn't a creepy way to start a conversation.

'Right.' Steve begins to quickly unwrap the tape on his hands.

'Yeah.' Eloquent as usual...

'I had the same idea, actually.' Steve places the neat roll of tape in his kit bag.

'Yeah?'

Steve runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up at the front. 'Give me fifteen minutes?' He nods towards the shower block that leads off from the room.

Clint has to bite back some lewd comment about joining him. That would be counter-productive, given what he's here to discuss. He just nods.

To pass the time he takes a few jabs at the punching bag Steve had been using. He's seen the super-soldier knock them clean out of their brackets. This one's still in-tact. He builds a steady rhythm of his own, enough to break into a light sweat. He can see why Steve finds this calming, but it just reminds him that he ought to go down to the range soon. He lands a slightly heavier hit. Should he ask if there's any progress on the new bow? Another heavy punch. Or is it too soon? He holts his fist just before making contact. _Too soon?_ What's that got to do with anything. He can only ask, right? Ask Tony. Ask Bruce. 'Fuck!' He's broken the rhythm and hit the bag awkwardly at the wrong angle.

He shakes his hand, like that's going to help... It hurts. Giant gash in his leg? Fine. Bullet to the stomach? Manageable. Crushed rib? Handled with dignity. Sore wrist? _Shit._

Of course right at the same moment Steve emerges from the showers — steaming, bare-chested, and in low riding pants — and Clint's trying to wipe the sweat from his brow with the bottom of his shirt, there's a voice from behind them.

'I _really_ hope I'm interrupting.' Stark's watching them from the doorway, leaning into it with his shoulder.

'Tony,' Steve actually sounds embarrassed, and maybe a little annoyed.

' _That's_ what America wants to see. What'd you think Katniss, want to make some money on the side selling security footage?' Tony vaguely nods in the direction of one of JARVIS' monitors.

For a brief moment, he wonders if Stark might actually be serious.

'Anyway,' Tony's looking at the engine grease under his nails, 'Natasha's chasing up everyone's ass about having breakfast together. She's convinced Bruce to cook for everyone.'

'Why?' Steve asks, echoing Clint's thoughts. She didn't mention anything earlier.

Tony shrugs. 'Course she doesn't realise I've been up since... JARVIS, when did I last sleep?'

'The day before last, Sir.'

'Seriously? Well that makes sense.'

He straightens to leave, and Clint notices the way he looks the pair of them up and down in an approving way. It's a little unsettling, given Steve's half-naked and Clint's still holding the hem of his shirt idly in his fist.

'Talk and walk?' Clint says after Tony goes.

Steve throws a fresh white shirt on and follows Clint to the lift.

'Hold up, give it a minute.' He doesn't want to run into Tony while he's having this discussion. He glances over at Steve — who seems to be working up the guts to say something. Little does he know that Clint's trying to do the same thing.

'Clint. Last night ... I shouldn't have done that. I mean, I meant to. Just, I don't want you to think it meant something that it didn't.'

Clint feels a weight on his shoulders dissipate. He leads them into the lift, telling JARVIS to take them up to the kitchen.

'Must be pretty awful being you,' Clint says with a sly grin.

The Cap frowns.

'You can't blame it on alcohol,' Clint clarifies. The other guy flushes. It's still pretty adorable. 'See me,' he continues, 'I'm only human.' That bit comes out sounding flatter than he'd intended, and he reckons Rogers picks up on it.

'I'm not looking to make excuses,' Steve says, 'only to make you aware that the sentiment was misplaced.'

' _The sentiment was misplaced?_ That some classy way of saying I was a rebound?'

'A what?'

Aww hell, the guy just gets more adorable. 'Never mind. Where was it misplaced _from_?'

The Cap twitches. A muscle in his neck _actually_ twitches. 'You said last night that you didn't know if I was doing it for the reason I thought I was.'

'I said that?'

'You did.'

'Well aren't I deep as an ocean,' Clint says with a laugh.

'I think I have ... feelings ... for someone else,' Steve says.

'Oh thank god for that,' Clint says, relieved. 'That didn't come out right. I mean, nothing against you — look at you — but, I wasn't doing it for the right reasons either. How'd you put it? Misplaced intentions? Bullseye. Got it in one — What?'

Steve's trying not to smile. 'Bullseye? Did you just make an archery pun?'

Clint rolls his eyes. 'Tell anyone and I'll kiss you again.'

Steve has the audacity to look smug. 'That's hardly a punishment. I still enjoyed the kiss, Clint. I couldn't stop thinking about it.'

Clint makes a note to remember that. The idea of Steve Rogers _thinking_ about him.

'I liked spending the day with you,' Steve continues. 'Everyone here has someone else except me. Tony and Bruce. Natasha and yourself. Thor's hardly around, and even then he's off with Jane. I miss that.'

He hadn't seen it like that before. Steve was friendly with all of them but he didn't have his own "other half" like the rest. 'Alright, forget last night. We'll go out again. I liked that part too. Serious Steve, anytime you want.'

He grins and Steve beams back.

* * *

He walks into the kitchen feeling a hundred pounds lighter. He's not going to wipe the memory of kissing Steve from his mind though, because it was damn enjoyable. But it's a relief to know it's not coming between them. Steve's walking in at his side and there's not a trace of awkwardness.

As they sit, it's clear they've interrupted Tony speaking in a hushed tone at Banner. Tony smirks at Clint.

The doctor stands suddenly and mumbles his excuses. Nat intercepts his exit at first but lets him pass.

Clint wonders if he should be concerned when Nat lands a plate of pancakes in front of him with far more force than necessary.

He glares at her as if to say, _what?!_

Her look gives nothing away.

'I might just ... take this to the range?' Clint says slowly, almost as a question to Nat.

She rolls her eyes and takes her own plate with her out of the room.

Steve looks a little concerned at the prospect of being left alone with Stark (who has completely lost interest with proceedings and is scribbling away on a tablet) and Clint has no clue why.

* * *

It's not until he's been in the archery range for a couple hours that things start to line up...

'Ha!' He actually lets his arm fall to his side, twirling the arrow he'd been about to fire between his fingers.

'Mr Barton,' JARVIS interjects, 'you're required in the main conference room.'

'What are we looking at, J?'

'I'll leave that to Agent Coulson, Sir.'

* * *

On the way up, the lift stops on Steve's floor to reveal the very man he'd been hoping to see.

Clint waits for Steve to step inside before speaking.

'It's Tony, isn't it?'

Steve's caught off guard and fails to hide his reaction.

'It's fine.' Clint says. ' _Really_. And frankly, kind of obvious. Now... '

'It's not like that. I'm more than happy to just be his friend, really, but ... do you think he's been acting strange? These past weeks, he's always around, always wanting a "quick word" about nothing in particular. He keeps talking about you, actually.' Steve won't meet his eye.

'Whoa, there's nothing going on there. No offence, but flying tin cans don't get my motor running. Look, as far as Stark acting strange, I hadn't really noticed.' He _had_ noticed Tony was spending less time with Banner though. 'I'll look out for it. What are you going to do?'

Steve shrugs.

'So was this,' he points back and forth between the two of them, 'about seeing if he'd be jealous?'

'No! I wanted to... I don't know. Sorry, Clint.'

'I don't mind. Really. Any chance to mess with Stark, I'm game.' Clint rolls his wrist absentmindedly, gently applying pressure at various points.

Steve looks on, bemused. 'Really?'

'You kidding! Of course! Come on,' Clint's leading the way out of the lift and towards the closed conference room doors. 'This'll keep.' There's no reply. 'Steve?'

'Sorry.' Steve's right there behind him, but he's focused on something down the hall to their right. There's a pair of low voices getting closer. Steve meets his eye. Clint can actually see him weighing up what to do next. It might be for show, but if anyone knows how to play a part, it's Steve. He steps in real close and runs his fingers around and under Clint's sore wrist. It's a weirdly intimate gesture.

Clint backs away first, before realising he'd placed his other hand on Steve's abdomen. Sometimes he never knew where to put his hands. _Ironic_ , he thinks.

'Mind on the job boys, mind on the job,' Tony calls as he comes into view, looking smug. Banner seems unfazed, not even looking at them as they pass through the conference room doors Natasha's holding open for them from inside. Clint lets his hand slide away from an apologetic looking Captain America.

'So that's how we're playin' this, yeah?' Clint says under his breath as he takes a seat round the table between Nat and Steve.

'Sorry... ' Steve says again.

'S'fine. Really. Might be quite fun actually.' Clint slaps Steve's upper arm.

'Sure? I don't want to be stepping on anyone's toes.'

Clint gives a short laugh. 'No sign of anything to step on round here, Cap.'

* * *

The meeting progresses pretty smoothly by Avengers standards. No one's insulted anyone, at least.

It's in regards to a simple raid on a lab and testing facility in woodlands about an hour North-West by air. They're going tomorrow. Clint's not surprised about the short notice, but when Tony starts berating Phil about needing more notice for these "little day trips" in the future, he zones out and absently tests his wrist, manoeuvring it back and forth then round in little circles. He can tell it's going to be fine by tomorrow. He hadn't had any difficulty in the range earlier. No strain, just a bit tender.

'You need medical to check that?' Coulson says, watching him.

'Nah, it's fine.'

'Go,' Nat interrupts. He frowns at her, unsure why she'd be pushing a voluntary trip to the med bay. 'Not for the hand,' she sighs, like he's a child. 'You're leg?'

Clint looks down. Sitting down must have aggravated the healing skin on the deep scratch on his upper thigh, because there's a small patch of blood seeping through the fabric of his pants. He applies pressure with his palm. 'It's nothing.' Even as he says it though, he knows it doesn't feel right.

'I saw the bruises yesterday, Clint. It's not healing properly.'

He throws her a mildly betrayed glare.

'I'm not having you compromised in the field tomorrow.'

Clint rolls his eyes but admits defeat with that particular point.

'I'm not expecting a need for combat tomorrow, so I'll wait for what the report says, but I'll be bringing you along anyway Barton.'

It perks him up a bit to know he won't be missing out on anything, no matter what the medic says.

'Agent Coulson — ' Steve begins.

'Phil, please,' Coulson says with that little glow of admiration he's still pretty awful at suppressing.

'Phil, if this is low-risk, why are we all going in?'

'Why us at all?' Banner adds, straightening in his chair.

'There's intel that this group has, of may have had, ties to Hydra.' Coulson says, taking a seat at the table next to Tony.

'Yeah, that and Fury's looking for some good PR with this one. No casualties is apparently the way to go. Yay,' Stark adds dryly.

'Look, what this lacks in excitement — '

'Hang on,' Banner interjects, 'from what you've said, you don't need the other guy tomorrow. Do you?' Clint catches the worried look he quickly gives Tony, and the subtle shake of the head he gets in return.

'No, we don't,' says Coulson. 'But we do need you. I want the labs evaluated by someone we know.'

'Someone you know has no links to Hydra, you mean,' Steve adds flatly.

Phil looks hurt. 'Yes,' he says with a sigh. 'I want this done smoothly, Romanov and Rogers can gain access under the radar. Tony will be scanning the structure for heat sources, and Barton, I need your vantage point to keep eyes on everyone. Doctor Banner, you'll remain on the jet with me until we've got the all clear to go in. You'll all be collected from here at 0900.'

'And what time do the press arrive?' Tony says sarcastically, checking his phone as it beeps.

'The same time you emerge from the building victorious and unscathed. Isn't that convenient?' Coulson replies without missing a beat. 'Barton, would you prefer I send someone here to check you over, or do you want to go the med unit with the others?'

'The others?'

'Yeah, actually, I'm going to have to stay here Bruce,' Tony says, indicating to his phone. 'That okay?'

All eyes turn to the Doc.

Banner clears his throat, 'I ... It's all routine. You may as well just come with me.'

Clint chews at the side of his mouth, 'Yeah? Sure.'

* * *

Someone, either Tony or Coulson, has arranged a driver for them. However, when Clint gets down to the underground garage, it's Natasha leaning against the driver's side door of the S.H.I.E.L.D issue SUV.

Banner's only a minute or two behind him. 'Are you...?' He trails off looking at Nat.

'Strictly here to keeps eyes on him,' She cocks her head in Clint's direction.

Banner frowns.

'He's got a habit of playing down injuries.'

'Aww, hey, you'd do the same.'

He catches her little smirk as they pile into the car.

* * *

Natasha's version of "civilian driving" is ... questionable ... but they get there in one piece.

When they arrive, Banner immediately goes his own way while Clint's sent off for scans.

Natasha's waiting for them both in the oh-so-familiar private consult room.

The young S.H.I.E.L.D medic who attends looks a bit terrified to come face-to-face with the Hulk's better half, Hawkeye, and the Black Widow. Even out of uniform, Clint still gets that they're a bit too much to deal with at once.

'I took a look at the footage from the warehouse, Agent Barton,' the guy says, with a quick glance at Banner. 'You took quite an impact from what I can tell.' When he starts looking through the scans, Nat moves across the room to hover over his shoulder, examining the images herself.

'Honest, it's fine.' He can feel Nat's eyes burning into him. ' _However_ ... I may of caught a bit of shrapnel on the way down.' He goes to roll up his pants leg, but soon realises it's going to have to go the other way, and reaches for his waistband. The fabric sticks a bit with the drying blood, but the majority is stuck to the bottom of his boxers. He grips the hem and debates whether to pull it away slowly or like a bandaid.

Banner clears his throat. 'Um, you don't want to move that too quickly, just try peeling it away.'

Clint grimaces and hesitates just long enough for Nat to step in.

'Doctor Banner, would you mind?' She's nodding at Clint.

He's expecting Banner to make excuses, but he swiftly takes over and slowly peels the cotton up and away, even taking a set of sterilised tweezers to separate the skin and fibres.

'You really don't feel that, do you?' he says slowly, concentrating on the task.

Clint's too busy focusing on his breathing to feel awkward about one of his teammates being in such close proximity. It all seems very clinical.

'Trust me, he feels it,' Natasha says.

'You just have to ignore it.' Clint finishes through gritted teeth.

'There's no time for sympathy out there,' Nat adds cooly.

'Well, it's definitely infected,' Banner mumbles, gesturing for the medic to step in.

* * *

They video call Coulson while the medic is updating his records.

'Nothing's broken. I got bruises all over the place, but that's nothing new — '

Coulson rolls his eyes. 'Natasha?'

'Infection to a deep cut above the left femur. It's been cleared, cleaned, stitched and wrapped, but he's off active duty for at least three weeks.'

'It should really be a month,' Banner adds quietly.

'I can't risk tearing or straining it,' Clint adds glumly.

'Clint, we'll sort something out,' says Coulson. He looks to be back in his office on the plane. 'We all know how much you love R&R.'

He has to chuckle a _little_ at that.

'But I'm still coming tomorrow?'

'Yes. You're still coming tomorrow.'

Clint sits back with a grin.

'Bruce, how did you go?' Coulson asks.

'Fine. All fine.'

As they end their call, the young doctor calls Clint back in to go through the care plan. Natasha instinctively follows, but Banner hangs back, bringing out his phone.

'I'll just... ' Banner nods towards the device.

Clint can't help hearing a few hushed words of the call before the door shuts between them.

'Tony ... Nothing's showing up ... No, they can't work it out either.'

Clint's sure he's not just imagining that Banner's looking worried...


	6. It's More than an Itch

**Chapter six, in which the team prepare to win back public opinion, and a source of tension and unease gets its release.**

 **Barton and Rogers are getting attention, Tony believes in the power of the jinx (and maybe Bruce should too), and Natasha, well, she's the only one who seems to understand what's possibly going on.**

* * *

 **Here we are, back to Bruce's POV (mostly), and... it didn't take me six months to update! Hurrah! Chapter 7 is already being polished off, so rest assured the days of a crazy long gap between updates are behind us.**

 **At first glance, it might not seem like much is occurring, but I assure you there is subtext and set-up galore...**

 **Please feel free to comment! I really enjoy reading what you have to say about the writing, plot, and what you think of the story! I hope you enjoy this latest chapter :)**

* * *

 **Under Supervised Conditions**

 **Chapter 6 - It's More than an Itch**

It's more than an itch.

Bruce can feel it. It's right on the edge of his vision.

It's under his skin.

Right now the Hulk is crawling, but pretty soon he'll be clawing.

* * *

'You want me to get the chamber ready?'

Of course Tony notices. He could easily make a joke of it, but to his credit, he knows when to stop. At least when it comes to matters relating to the other guy.

He can feel Tony's eyes following his every movement. Each flinch, blink, any rub of a tight muscle.

Bruce sighs, but doesn't look up from the touchscreen on the work bench. 'No.'

'Is that no, _no_? Or no, not right now?'

'Not yet.' Bruce looks up at his friend over the top of his glasses.

Tony raises an eyebrow but nods. 'What'd the S.H.I.E.L.D team say?'

After the trip to the external med bay with Barton and Natasha, Bruce had shut himself away in his favourite lab to rerun the tests he'd just done. He'd slept in his chair and hadn't seen a soul until Tony came by in the early hours to look over Bruce's results for himself.

There was no denying that something was amiss. He was picking up on all the signs he used to notice before he got a handle on controlling the Hulk's release. It had only started a few days ago, but that was a few days too long. The real concern was that they were occurring at random. There'd be sudden ripples of unsteadiness where his skin would feel too tight or he couldn't tolerate being still. It would go as quickly as it came. He'd experienced one of these episodes while he was being examined by S.H.I.E.L.D, for which he was oddly grateful. It gave them a chance to monitor his blood pressure and heart rate etcetera in real time — something he hadn't been able to do himself yet with the episodes happening at random.

'They couldn't see anything. Everything was just ... normal. I was sitting there, hooked up to the machines, and even as I could _feel_ it, they only registered the smallest shift in my base levels. Nothing significant or noteworthy. It won't even make it to the file. I don't know if I should be concerned or relieved.'

Tony minimises his notes on the drop-down screen in front of him with a pinch of his fingers and a wave of his hand. 'I'd go with relieved?'

Bruce removes his glasses, twiddling the lightweight frame in his fingers.

'Concerned?' Tony offers.

He stares up at his friend, folding the glasses away into his chest pocket.

'Grateful for a distraction?'

This gets a resigned sigh from Bruce.

It's half an hour before they're due to fly out with Coulson.

'What about this raid?' Tony asks, 'You wanna let the higher-up's know?'

Bruce considers it for a moment as he shuts down the equipment he'd been running, and picks up the kit he needs for evaluating the lab. Frankly, he's been weighing it up since he got back to the tower last night. So far they've kept it to themselves, only telling Coulson that he wanted a second opinion on his own routine check-up.

'I've been fine this morning.' That was true.

'Don't jinx it, Doc.'

'You're a scientist, Tony. We don't _jinx_ things.'

'My point exactly.'

'I'll take extra tranquillisers.'

'Ahh, because deep down you believe in the mighty power of the jinx,' Tony croons as they leave the lab.

* * *

As they arrive at the quinjet landing pad, Natasha's standing at the top of the loading ramp with Coulson. Both are impeccably dressed. Not a hair or collar out of place.

Bruce however, is suddenly aware that despite a quick shower last night in the recovery room near his lab, he's still dressed in yesterday's dark grey slacks and crumpled lilac shirt. And his hair ... well that's a lost battle. He's not even going to address the issue of 5 o'clock shadow at quarter-to-nine in the morning.

As if to make him feel even scruffier, the lift returns with Steve and Barton. Steve's already in full Captain America mode, shield slung casually over his shoulder as he smiles at something Barton's leaning in to say.

The archer leads the way, grabbing and packing his kit. Every item has its place — and he clips, folds, tucks, slides, fastens, and ties every last piece away without looking, all while avoiding the healing cut on his thigh.

'Look at you all ready to go,' Tony teases Steve, as he slips on the sleek cuffs to call the Iron Man suit into action. 'Quite the entrance.'

'Because you've never been one to make an entrance, right?' Steve says. Bruce has to admire the way even his insults sound dignified.

Then again, he can hardly imagine Captain America coming out with a big "Fuck you." The idea makes him smile involuntarily. He must of laughed aloud or something too, because Barton's looking at him quizzically.

'Clint,' Coulson calls out. 'You won't be needing that. You're eyes only today. Light duties, remember?'

Barton's reaching for his heavy-duty compact bow. The light-weight one is already affixed near the quiver on his back. He mutters something along the lines of, 'Light duties my arse,' but leaves the second bow. As he boards the jet, he pauses to give Coulson a quick sarcastic curtsy.

Coulson looks dryly amused.

Like Natasha, Coulson's got his own special relationship with the archer, forged during their time as a close-knit team, and only strengthened after they all assumed they'd lost him on the heli-carrier.

'Bruce?'

He snaps to attention. Tony's got a hand on his shoulder.

'You good to go? You zoned out for a sec there.'

Bruce nods and rolls his shoulders, riding out the rippling wave pulsating under his skin.

He double checks he's got the tranquilliser kit in his hand and boards the quinjet with Steve and Tony.

* * *

Once Agent Coulson's run them all through the plan again, Bruce spends the flight with his headphones on low and internally assessing if this is the right idea. If worst comes to worst he can knock himself out to prevent risking everyone's safety. He knows even getting on the jet in the first place was an awful idea when he doesn't know what he's dealing with. At the same time though ... he senses that this is something different. The other guy is testing him, wanting to get out, but without the rage he normally associates with the change.

He passes the flight by watching everyone else. Coulson's at Nat's shoulder, though with their backs toward him, Bruce doesn't know if they're speaking to one another.

The Cap and Barton have been talking, bringing Tony in now and then before he goes towards the back of the jet to have his suit assembled onto his frame. At one point, Steve steps in real close and adjusts Clint's Hawkeye uniform, folding back an edge of his sleeve to lay flush with his skin. It's more than just a friendly gesture, surely. Even Barton seems surprised for a second. Then smug.

Tony's got to be pleased about this development, he thinks. Bruce didn't think Tony had a chance of pairing them up, but clearly his friend was onto something. What had he said at the beginning of all this? That they just suggest a certain idea and observe the result? He knows Tony won't be content with a bit of innocent flirtation between the pair though. How far is he going to push it? Bruce had already made up his mind not to tell his friend about the kiss between the pair he'd accidentally caught the other night.

With his headphones on, he can't hear what they're saying, but he watches Steve as he speaks. He seems embarrassed. Barton waves away whatever Steve is saying, grins, and nods at something over the Cap's shoulder, near to where Tony's standing, surreptitiously watching them.

'We're five minutes out,' Natasha calls back from the controls, 'buckle up.'

Bruce removes his headphones and brings the safety restraints over his shoulders. Rogers, Barton, and Coulson are doing the same opposite him. Tony stays standing, opting to grab onto a handle on the wall of the jet near the loading ramp.

Barton bumps his knee into Steve's and leans over to say something into his ear. The Cap looks taken aback and shakes his head. The archer grins and leans back into his seat. Bruce reaches for his glasses, fumbling, when he unintentionally catches the other man's eye.

They land in a woodland clearing a fair distance from the base. While they may not be expecting armed resistance of the traditional kind, being a manufacturing lab, they still need the element of surprise in case of hasty decisions involving chemicals or wiping hard-drives. And that's why he's here, in a purely scientific capacity, to go in once they're secure and analyse the lab and data.

Steve and Nat will be moving out first. They've had the all clear from whoever's at the other end of Coulson's comms, meaning the pair can make their way to the facility through the woodland. Tony will give Barton a hand getting to his vantage point before moving into position. On Barton's say, Nat and Steve will enter the building, with Tony alerting them to any signs of life coming their way with the help of JARVIS and the suit's heat sensors. All going to plan, they can infiltrate the facility slowly, cautiously, and without incidents.

Well, that's the plan.

After one final look at the schematics of the building, Steve and Nat are away, leaving four of them in the jet. For some reason the loading ramp is raised again after they leave.

The space starts to feel very small.

And confined.

The air feels thin.

Bruce moves away from the other men, still gathered around the floor plan projections, focusing on creating a rhythm in his breathing.

He undoes the top button of his shirt. Like that could make a difference.

As much as he's trying to compose himself, he instinctively removes his glasses and puts them aside.

'Tony,' he's fighting to keep his tone neutral.

His friend is focused on the screen.

'Tony.' The name is barely audible, his voice straining.

With growing disorientation, he looks for both the release button for the door or the tranquillisers, whichever appears first.

Tony's moved out of sight into the cockpit, taking Coulson with him.

Barton's watching him though.

There's a ripple effect as his veins pulsate, knuckles whitening, jaw locking.

'Get him out of here.' His voice is little more than a hoarse whisper. He doesn't know if Barton's heard him.

But without delay, Barton slams the button to lower the back of the jet.

Bruce is already stumbling towards the opening, all the while trying to articulate something about the tranquillisers.

The archer goes to steady his shoulders to right him as he sways off-course, but Bruce deliberately stumbles out of reach, recoiling from his touch. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in small mirrored panel. The eyes that meet his for a fleeting moment flash green to brown and back again. As the ramp drops onto the solid earthen ground, the last thing he knows is the sensation of racing in the opposite direction to the base to get distance between himself and the jet (and the targets), trying and failing to keep moving one foot in front of the other.

* * *

Clint's seen this sequence play out much more smoothly, hell, even gracefully. He recalls Banner describing it as a switch. A conscious decision. But this? This is a mess. Like he's been fighting it. Banner's form is growing in bursts. He's writhing and contorting, but somehow without more than a low, pained growl. His shirt finally breaks apart and fragments are blown in all directions by the force of the jet's engine.

It looks like agony.

Clint senses Tony over his shoulder. 'Shit,' is all Stark offers, in a low voice.

When the Hulk emerges — chest heaving with every breath — he looks back towards them.

Clint feels Tony go to pass him, intending to move towards the Hulk. But a small shake of the giant green head stops him.

Hulk rolls his shoulders like he's stretching and starts towards the dense woodland at a slow pace, but is soon out of sight amongst the tall trees.

'It's fine,' Stark says quietly, sounding like he's trying to reassure himself more than anything. 'He's been — Just leave him to it.'

Clint lets out the breath he'd been holding in.

'You want to tell me what the hell just happened?' Coulson calls behind them, holding his hand around the mouthpiece of his headset.

Tony seems to consider his next words. 'Come on, let's get you to your nest.' Normally he would say that teasingly, but like Clint, he seems distracted by what he's just seen.

* * *

Nearly four hours later, the siege is winding down, and Clint's still up in the crook of a tall tree. Steve and Nat are handling the last of the group, working in sync to close in without anyone slipping away. There's the occasional glint flashing across Clint's vision as light bounces off the Iron Man suit. Stark's ranting into everyone's comms about the state of villainous construction methods. 'Not even enough class to build a bunker. _How is there no bunker!_ '

Phil calls everyone back to the jet, leaving a S.H.I.E.L.D team to round up the prisoners into transportation.

They've got a twenty minute grace period before Stark and the Cap are due to do an "impromptu" press conference on the opposite side of the site to prove how effective — and nonlethal — the Avenger's initiative can be. Hurray for public confidence!

As the team returns, the Hulk is pacing around about 100ft from the jet. Which is odd. Because normally around this point, Clint would be setting down a fresh set of clothes next to an unconscious Banner and keeping guard over the prone body from a decent distance until he woke.

He's still disconcertingly quiet. He hadn't alerted anyone to their arrival or impacted the mission. Well, you know, apart from the unscheduled change.

Clint had spared the odd look back towards the clearing from his high vantage point when he could. The Hulk appeared to be walking around and having a silent tantrum. He'd rub his huge hands through his hair and beat at his chest, shaking his head like he was trying to dislodge something. If he didn't know better, Clint would say that he looked like someone trying to process bad news. He didn't think that sort of rationalisation was possible when it came to the Hulk.

Last to arrive at the jet are Nat and Steve.

Which is when the Hulk proceeds to snap. Or, more accurately, act as he normally would.

His features stretch, tighten, his mouth curling into a snarl as he roars.

Out of the corner of his eye, Clint sees Nat wave Steve into the quinjet. He looks confused but complies.

The Hulk moves away from them, beating at his arms and chest with increased rage. Out of nowhere he makes contact with a mature tree and pulls it down with very little effort and begins smashing into the trunk.

'Doc's got a tranq kit here,' Steve says over the comms. 'Arrows and a pump syringe.'

So that's what Banner was pointing at.

'No,' Tony says quickly, his face plate folding away. 'Lets try this the normal way. Something's been messing with his system, I don't want to add to that mix with sedatives.'

'Natasha. Time for a lullaby?' Steve says.

She looks wary, but nods. 'Clint, with me.' She signals which way to approach.

'What happened to "light duties," eh?' He follows anyway. _Of course_ he's going to follow.

'Wait,' Steve calls, not through the comms, but from the top of the ramp. He throws a rolled blanket to Nat, and a tranq-arrow to Clint, which he smoothly stows away. 'As a back up,' Steve says to Tony.

He follows Nat's lead. She's developed her own way of handling and calming the Hulk despite their rocky start.

'Hey, big guy,' she says softly when they're getting close.

The Hulk looks up at the voice, staggers back a step and huffs, his chest rising and falling slowly. Looking between the pair — Nat with her hand outstretched and Clint with his hands held up in clear view to reassure the big guy he's not about to shoot him — he seems much calmer already.

Clint can understand why Tony didn't want to sedate him.

With another look at Clint, the Hulk meets Nat halfway, watching as she gently strokes his palm.

'There we go, big guy,' she croons. 'Talk to him,' she adds lightly to Clint.

She's smiling, _actually smiling_ , as she brushes her fingers against Hulk's.

'Hey... ' Shit. He's got no idea what to say. He makes what he hopes is a soothing sound instead.

It gets the big guy's attention. Huge green eyes blink slowly at him. Clint can even make out flecks of a familiar warm brown.

'That's it... ' Nat says, stepping back.

She seems to know what's coming next, because in a flash, the Hulk is stumbling backwards, his limbs twisting and shrinking.

It's quiet for a moment.

'Coulson, we're all good. I have visual on Doctor Banner,' Nat says into the comms. 'Tell Stark and Rogers they can go smile for the cameras.'

'Copy. Do you require assistance to get Doctor Banner onboard?'

There's a low — but undeniably human — groan from somewhere Clint can't see.

'Negative. He's concious.'

Clint moves to take the blanket from Nat, but she shakes her head.

'I've got this.'

Banner's conscious but groggy when they emerge again. He's walking unassisted, which is a damn good sign.

Coulson's alone on the quinjet ramp when they reach it.

'We're taking Banner back with us. I've sent someone to collect Steve after the press conference,' says Coulson.

'And Stark?' Nat asks.

'Suit.'

The Doc falls back into a bench seat in the jet. The blanket's draped haphazardly around his waist and over his lap.

He's oddly calm.

* * *

The first thing he notices is that he feels unusually peaceful, even with the way he's slumped into the hard metal bench. He can hear voices around him, can see three blurred figures though his heavy eyelids, but speaking seems like too much effort.

He remembers Nat. She'd been speaking to him as he woke up in the woods. The words are garbled though. Maybe it was Russian.

'I'm only going to ask this one more time,' Coulson says. 'What the hell happened out there?'

His head thumps lazily against the cool metal behind him.

Bruce has never been more grateful to pass out, simply to delay answering that question.


	7. Lost in Translation

**Following Bruce's surprise turn at the raid, a few conditions are set out for him until he can work out the trigger. Natasha has her own theories, of course, but the rest of them are none the wiser.**

 **And as a night of team R & R ensues, take note of who gravitates to who...**

* * *

 **A quick thank you to you all for reading! An extra big Avengers-team-bonding-shoulder-clap to all those who have left comments or subscribed! Getting those alerts and reading your comments makes me smile like a giddy fool!**

* * *

 **Under Supervised Conditions**

 **Chapter 7 - Lost in Translation**

'Does he seem calmer to you?'

'It was the easiest transition I've seen, Sir.'

Bruce is slipping back into consciousness, not quite ready to open his eyes, but becoming aware of his surroundings. The voices — Coulson and Natasha — continue, but he tunes them out while he gets his bearings. He's not on the quinjet. He can tell that much immediately. Under him is a stationary, soft, somewhat sterile, bed. He's going to assume they've moved him to the recovery room in the Avengers Tower.

They're right. He does feel calm. He'd expect to feel drained, and yeah, he does, but ... he can't think of another word for it, he feels light.

There's a series of beeps coming from a phone.

'Possible lead on a second facility in Europe. A testing facility,' Coulson reads aloud.

'Testing what, exactly?'

'Temporary Chemical Enhancement. T.C.E. Oh great, it's already got an acronym,' Coulson says flatly.

Bruce listens to him type something back. He can hear a very quiet "whoosh" as the message is sent. His thoughts suddenly catch up with him.

'Whosinthelab,' he says.

'Sorry?' says Coulson.

'He wants to know who's running the lab data,' Natasha replies.

Bruce nods and finally opens his eyes.

'I brought in Fitz-Simmons.'

'Oh, right.' He's disappointed he couldn't have done the job himself.

Feeling the dryness in the roof of his mouth when he speaks, Bruce pulls himself up and turns towards the unit next to his bed. He keeps bottled water in the top shelf. His hand pauses mid-reach however when he registers the open bottle and full glass already waiting. 'Thanks,' he mumbles before taking a long sip. He scans the room as he gets the fluids down. Someone's moved a chair next to his bed and draped a fresh set of clothes over the back ... which leads Bruce to check himself. He's surprised to find that he's half dressed in the loose cotton pants he keeps stored in the recovery room.

'Bruce?' Coulson gets his attention. He doesn't look angry like he had on the jet before Bruce passed out. He's not sure whether to be relieved or wary...

'Tony called between interviews,' there's a subtle roll of the eyes when he mentions the press conference business. 'He's explained everything.'

'Oh?' Bruce frowns.

'He wanted it made clear that while you knew something was "off," you had no reason to believe that you would either pose a threat to the mission or were at risk of ... changing.'

Bruce wonders if he's edited Tony's actual phrasing.

'Additionally, he wants it on the record that it was at his instruction that you came along, and that the tranquillisers were not expected to be needed. Does that about cover it, Doctor Banner?'

'Ah ... yes?'

Coulson glances at his phone. 'Look, I don't know whether to take Stark's account as the whole truth, but frankly, as this incident had no impact on the result today, I'm willing to let his version go on the record.'

Bruce sighs with relief — not about the report, but about the result. 'There were no casualties?' He just wants to know for sure.

There's a little snort of amusement from Natasha. Bruce is confused.

'No,' Coulson clarifies. 'The Hulk stayed away from the action. Seemingly deliberately. And the agents had no trouble getting him comply with the transition.'

The agents. That meant Natasha, who gives a nod when he glances at her for confirmation, and Barton, who picks that moment to enter the room, making a beeline for Coulson.

'Tin-can's two minutes away,' he says lightly.

Bruce chuckles at the archer's synonym for Tony and his suit.

Barton turns around, looking surprised that he's awake.

'We've got a lead on a testing facility somewhere in Europe.' Natasha begins —

'Actually, they're telling me Greenland now,' Coulson interjects.

'Huh,' Barton huffs. 'Never thought I'd be going there.'

'You won't,' Coulson replies dryly, indicating Barton's leg. 'You know the deal. Four weeks of recovery starting today.'

'Aw, hang on. We agreed three, no one said four.'

'I did,' Bruce adds quietly.

Barton gives him a somewhat murderous look.

'Fee-fi-fo-fum.' Tony's voice proceeds the man himself by a good few seconds as he calls down the hall. 'Brucey, you're having a party in here,' he says, taking in the cluster of agents in the room. 'A really _dull_ party ... Phil, seriously? Next time, no tie.'

Tony smoothly sits himself down in the chair and puts his feet up on the edge of the bed (steel-cap boots and all), already pushing his weight onto the back legs of the chair, the other two lifting off the ground. Even though he's not in the suit, Bruce can tell his friend's come straight from the press conference. He's wearing the same raglan band-shirt he had on before they left, and his hair is laying flat from being confined in the suit. 'He tell you about the supervision thing yet?'

Bruce looks from Tony to Phil.

'We can't have this happen again, Bruce. I know you understand that. We need to know how this was triggered. We were lucky today. I'm not taking that risk again. So, unless the Hulk is absolutely needed, you'll be staying within the tower until we're confident this was a one-off.'

'So ... I'm under house arrest? That's what you're saying?'

Phil blinks at him. 'We just need to be satisfied you've got this sorted.'

'And who is _we_?'

Tony raises his hand in the air like a school kid.

Just Stark? It can't be as simple as that.

Tony must know what he's thinking because with an exaggerated eye roll, he relents, 'Okay, a S.H.I.E.L.D medic has to sign off when we think you're ready. _And_ you'll be under supervision.'

'You can continue your day-to-day as normal, but under the supervision of either Tony or Clint,' Coulson explains.

'Cl — Agent Barton?'

'We already know he's capable of settling the Hulk, and as he's on his four week — '

'Three week — ' Barton interjects.

' — _Four_ week rest and recovery, it's just logical.'

'Two birds, one stone. I believe that's correct, Doctor?' Natasha says with a smirk.

'Oh, sure, that one you know.'

'Of course,' she replies.

'Of course.'

'If that's everything?' Coulson asks of no one in particular, preparing to leave. 'Keep me updated.'

Barton gives a mock salute. 'Will do, Sir. I know how you worry so.'

Coulson suppresses a tight-lipped smile as he exits.

Tony claps his hands together, 'Alright, cat's away boys ... and girl. What are our plans for the evening?'

Natasha and Barton cross their arms with eerie synchronicity. 'What did Phil just say,' the former asks.

Tony stands with a groan. 'Fine. Keep it in-house. Movies. Food. Liquor. How's that sound?'

' _Perfect_ ,' Bruce says.

Tony does a double-take. Clearly he wasn't expecting Bruce to comply. 'You are _seriously_ chill right now, aren't you?' he asks rhetorically. 'And I am absolutely going to take advantage of that.' Tony leaves with a devilish grin stretching across his features.

'You good from here?' Barton says, gesturing to the change of clothes.

'Ah, yes... Actually, one question ... who dressed me?'

Natasha smirks.

'You did,' the archer says. Bruce must look surprised. 'With a little assistance,' he adds, tilting his head at Natasha.

'You were drifting in and out of consciousness for a while. You were very compliant though.' She's not masking the amused tone to her last statement.

That really doesn't reassure him.

* * *

Soon enough, he has the room to himself.

There's still a couple of hours before Tony wants them to meet in the main communal space. After deliberating whether to simply shower in the recovery room en-suite and put in some hours in the lab or make a move back to his suite, Bruce slips on his shoes and picks through the clothes laid over the back of the chair.

Whoever brought these down picked out one of his favourite white hemp button-ups and cotton jackets. He realises he's lost the lilac shirt today. Great.

In the end he puts the jacket on over his bare chest, bundles up everything else, and makes for the lift. As he rides to his floor, he wonders when this "supervision" is meant to start. Unless it had already ... He looks up at the small pinprick of blue light in the ceiling, indicating JARVIS' monitor, and raises an eyebrow.

He lays the clothes out across his large bed, shucking off the jacket to place on top. He's chosen not to acknowledge it until now, but he's feeling good. Like he's well-rested, relieved, and drunk all at once.

He should probably make a note of this. A shower will have to wait.

Two hours later, Bruce has filed his notes from the day's events, showered, and is currently attempting to tame his hair. He even _looks_ refreshed. The bags he normally carries under his eyes after a transformation are only faint, more like he's had a late night, and his eyes are bright (still brown, but bright).

'What was that about, hey?' he mutters to himself.

Still with the towel around his waist, Bruce wanders back out into the bedroom. 'JARVIS, could we lift the tint on the windows?' The block-out tint fades from the glass. 'Thank you.' He feels like seeing the city as he gets ready. Tony had installed the highest quality one-way glass to the exterior of the building. It could be made opaque from the inside, but there was never any chance of paparazzi, neighbours, or voyeurs (he refused to call them "fucking creepy groupies" like Tony had) looking in.

The light outside had mostly faded. Clouds were rolling in from the East. It was likely going to be another drizzly night.

* * *

Everyone's already assembled in the lounge when Bruce arrives. Tony and Barton are standing by the walkway leading to the kitchen with a beer each, discussing something animatedly. Natasha and Steve are sitting on one end of the largest lounge, pointing at things on a tablet screen. Bruce moves towards them out of curiosity.

They're attempting to select a film. Someone had suggested a title — some action/romance/thriller — and Natasha's explaining to Steve why the original French version is better than the remake.

'I don't know, I don't really like trying to follow subtitles... ' Steve's attempting to say this in the least insulting way possible.

'Who needs subtitles,' Barton interrupts, leaning around Bruce to pass Natasha a beer. 'Nat can translate. _I_ can translate.'

Natasha's eyes light up at the idea, but she selects the remake. Not that it matters in the end, because they keep getting into debates and side-tracked conversations during the film. It starts with Steve announcing he'd been to a place they'd just seen on-screen, then Barton asks him to elaborate, which Steve does, but he falters a little at the mention of one of his old friends, at which point Tony artfully steers Steve in a different direction until somehow, they arrive at the topic of culinary skills.

Steve doesn't rate himself in the kitchen, blaming the excessive amount of modern gadgetry to do the simplest task.

'Hey, come on, you can still cook though. Right?' Barton chides, walking around the couch to grab another round of drinks. 'Pancakes. Surely you can manage pancakes?'

Steve deflects to Tony. 'What about you? It's always take-out with you.'

'Hey now, I've been known to _woo_ with my skills in the kitchen.'

Bruce nearly spits out his mouthful of beer. ' _Really_?'

'Yes, _really_ ,' Tony says, drawing the words out.

Bruce laughs when JARVIS chooses that moment to announce their pizza order's arrived.

'We can't all be skilled in world cuisine like you, Jolly Green, but mastering the perfect steak is still an art.'

'That's your idea of cooking for seduction?' Barton jokes as he hands out new bottles to everyone before climbing over the back of the couch at the same time Tony rises to collect the food. 'What a guy.'

'Like you could do better,' Tony calls as he leaves.

When the archer makes no retort, he gets a whack to his arm from Natasha.

'What was that for,' laughs Steve, looking between the pair.

'Because Clint's a good cook. Surprisingly good,' Natasha explains with pride.

Her friend looks at her. 'The "surprisingly" voids the compliment, Nat.'

She shrugs and leans back into the armrest.

Tony returns with an eight-high stack of pizzas wedged between his palm and chin, and a paper bag full of foil-wrapped garlic breads. There's an audible groan in the room as the smell reaches them.

Bruce jumps up to take half the stack from Tony and carries them into the kitchen.

'Ah, about earlier... ' Bruce begins, as he fetches plates, 'why'd you take the blame?'

Tony catches his eye. 'Because I honestly believe you didn't expect that to happen today. And if S.H.I.E.L.D want to throw shit at the wall, or the fan, or whatever, I'll remind them who paid for those walls. And fans.' He shrugs a shoulder nonchalantly. 'They can't touch me. They _can_ make things difficult for _you_. And I won't let them.'

Bruce has to break the eye contact, he's quite touched at the sentiment. 'Thank you.'

Tony grabs his shoulder on his way past and gives it a friendly shake.

'Go feed yourselves,' he says, kicking the back of the couch where Steve, Natasha, and Barton are sitting.

At some point during the night, Bruce mentions aloud that it's a really long film, before realising it's a completely different one now. When had that happened?

Tony's moved to sit by Steve, who, unlike Tony, is suffering none of the effects of the alcohol they seem to be ploughing through. Judging from Steve's expression, he's having a hard time following whatever Tony's saying to him.

When Natasha returns from the bathroom — via the kitchen for another round — she scoots Barton up the lounge and sits between him and Bruce.

'Can you?' She says to Bruce, indicating the tablet she'd been using earlier.

He hands it to her, and she quickly finds what she's looking for. Without Tony and Steve even noticing, she switches the film over to the French version of the previous action flick, and disables the subtitles.

They're about ten minutes into the film when Bruce decides to state the obvious. 'I have no idea what's going on.' It's not just the language (he can manage conversational French), or that it seems different to the remake; the drinks and unusual calm he's experiencing have got him really relaxed, to the point where he'd happily just live in his corner of the couch for the foreseeable future.

Natasha and Barton turn to each other. 'Dibs,' he says, nodding at the male lead on the screen.

'Okay,' Natasha begins after a long swig from her beer, 'so these two work for the same government department, and he's married, but she's always stayed on her own because she hates commitment. Anyway, they've slept together once when they were undercover and he won't do this next job with her, so they've been put on different assignments. He's got to work with a local gang, and he doesn't know, but she's had to infiltrate a trafficking organisation —'

'That seems like a lot to have happened in ten minutes,' Bruce says skeptically.

'I read the book,' Natasha replies, 'I'm skipping ahead to set it up.'

'Right.'

'Fine, I won't spoil it. Okay, right now, this is when he's telling her that he can't work with her.' The pair on the screen are standing in some side street in the cold light of morning. Natasha starts translating the woman's dialogue with only a fraction of a delay to what's on the screen,

' _You can't expect her to understand what we do. And you can't take it home with you._ '

Barton clears his throat, ' _What am I supposed to do?_ '

' _I understand it. Don't shut me out.'_

They continue like that for a solid half hour and Bruce actually follows what's going on ... until Barton seems to go off-book.

' _I just, hey, what's with your shirt_?' The lead actor is in the middle of planning something with the gang, and is pointing at someone. ' _And there, what about yours? Why is everyone wearing black?_ '

Nat rolls her eyes, but keeps up the _actual_ translation.

The camera goes back to the lead.

' _I'm just saying, everyone's going to know we're the bad guys if we keep wearing black. Let's mix it up, guys._ '

The longer it goes on — and the more they drink — between Natasha playing it straight, and Barton's interpretations getting more and more ludicrous, Bruce can't stop himself from grinning like an idiot. He has to carefully time when he takes a mouthful of food or drink. It's not even safe when Natasha's speaking, because juxtaposed with her friend's ramblings, her dialogue gets even funnier.

The film ends with explosions, a fight, a reunion, and Barton doubled over laughing at Natasha's determination to explain what _actually_ happened to Bruce as he subtly wipes little tears away from trying not to laugh.

The night comes to an end when Tony wakes with a start after drifting off — seemingly mid-conversation with Steve — and declares that maybe he does actually have to sleep tonight.

He's walked out supported by Steve, who looks both concerned and amused, and Barton, who stumbles out of his seat to join Steve. Bruce notices the way he quickly grabs his leg when he stands, putting pressure on the healing cut in his thigh.

He senses Natasha watching him. 'He's lucky you forced him to medical. That would have gone real bad, real quick.'

'He never knows when to ask for help,' she says. Bruce turns to her with a sympathetic smile. Natasha mirrors his expression, then moves to lay down on the couch, which is big enough for her to stretch out on without Bruce feeling like he's intruding on her personal space.

Bruce sighs, reaching forward to put his empty bottle on the coffee table. 'One too many?'

'I can handle my liquor, Doc,' she mutters, 'I just can't face that lift right now.'

He knows what she means. It can feel unsettling after a few drinks, to travel so quickly up or down the tower. 'I think you've got the right idea.'

Natasha reaches blindly behind her head and lobs a spare cushion, then a throw-rug across to Bruce, before rolling onto her side and curling into a cushion of her own.

He decides to risk the lift anyway. Even though he's sure Natasha's not asleep yet, he keeps as quiet as he can as he tidies away the clutter on the table, ferrying bottles and plates back to the dark kitchen.

He hears Natasha moving around on the lounge from the other room.

Unsurprisingly, all the pizza boxes are empty. Bruce begins stacking them by the sink for someone to deal with in the morning.

'Anything I can do?' says a voice behind him.

Bruce startles, then looks over his shoulder at Barton, who's leaning in the archway.

'Ah, no... I'm just killing time really. It's either this or find a good book to read.'

'Yeah? You okay?' He sounds genuinely interested, not like he's just being polite.

'I just feel really _awake_. That's not normal — well, you've seen how I am normally.'

'Yeah, it was a weird one.'

'Natasha said you didn't have any trouble getting him to change.'

'It was more Nat than me to be honest. But the other guy was already pretty sedate. Well, mostly.'

Bruce takes a seat at the kitchen island and focuses on the archer as best he can when the only light source is the city outside. 'Mostly?'

Barton sits in a stool opposite and runs a hand through his hair absentmindedly, raking it forward. 'I had eyes on him for most of the time. I could see him from where I was set up.'

'What was he doing? Coulson said he stayed by the jet?'

'Well, yeah, that was the strange thing. He went off in the opposite direction to the raid, and stayed quiet too. Then he just sort of paced around in the clearing... ' Barton seems to be looking for the right words.

'What?'

'It was like he was beating himself up about something, I mean, like he was _processing_ something? Is that possible?'

Bruce frowns at a random point on the counter top. 'He can reason for himself, to a degree, there's evidence of that. But as for having a dilemma... That's unusual.'

'You don't have any idea what he was thinking about?' Barton's leaning forward as he talks.

He shakes his head.

'Well, he stayed like that for ages until we all came back to the jet, then he sort of snapped and seemed pretty pissed off. But like Nat says, we didn't have a problem when we went to calm him.'

Bruce sighs again. He's been doing that a lot lately.

'M'sure you'll figure it out, Doc. Even if you've gotta put up with Stark and me over your shoulder.'

'No one's said how this supervision is going to work,' Bruce says idly. 'I guess no one thinks I'm a risk tonight at least.' Bruce stands and rubs at the spot where his glasses sit on his nose.

'Should I ... supervise you to your door?' Barton laughs at his own words before Bruce even has time to respond. 'Sorry, that didn't ... that didn't come out right.'

'Ah ... yeah, sure. Okay.'

'I'll take that as a yes,' Barton leans back and slides off of his stool. 'Alright. You good to go?'

Bruce looks around, knowing full well there's nothing to find. He pats his pockets anyway, like he would if he were checking he had his keys or wallet on him.

Natasha's left to her own devices after Barton checks on her. He meets Bruce in the hall and they wander aimlessly towards the lift. Apparently neither of them are in any hurry to get to sleep.

For want of something to break the silence, Bruce asks after Tony.

Barton snorts. 'He nearly fell over on the way up, but Steve caught him before he could do any real damage. He'll have a sore head in the morning, but he's fine.'

The mention of the Cap's name sparks some reminder of the day's events. 'So ... you and Steve?'

Barton frowns as they step into the lift. In the few seconds it takes to get to Bruce's floor, the other man stays silent, and Bruce starts to worry he's said something out of place.

'Yeah, about that... ' Barton begins slowly, stepping out and moving aside for Bruce to lead the way to the door of his suite.

He's a little surprised Barton's still following him, he was expecting to part ways in the lift, with the archer continuing up to his own floor.

'No, sorry,' Bruce says quickly. 'I shouldn't ... It's none of my business.'

Barton gives a little laugh, scratching at his elbow. 'Nah, it's fine. Actually it's only — '

'No, _no_ , you don't have to tell me. Sorry.' Bruce stops at his door. 'I should... ' he gestures vaguely at the door to his suite.

'Right, yeah.' Barton stops, claps his hands together, and takes a step backwards. 'You got books to read.'

'Exactly... ' he opens his door and glances inside. He can see straight through to the back wall of the bedroom, the city lights hazy in the cloudy night sky.

'I might join you.'

'Sorry?' Bruce looks back at the archer.

'I mean with the book. Reading. My book ... I'm reading a book.' Barton shuts his eyes tight and briskly shakes his head. 'Hey, maybe I do need some shut-eye after all,' he laughs. 'I'll ... ah ... supervise you later, Banner.' And with that he pivots around to return to the lift.

Bruce waits until he hears the lift go before stepping inside and slowly closing the door. He looks for something to read in his book case, but nothing catches his attention.

'Would you like a suggestion, Doctor?' JARVIS asks cooly.

Bruce gives an exasperated laugh, 'No. No, that's okay.'

He has a sneaking suspicion the AI isn't thinking about simply recommending a title.

* * *

 **Random author's note: The film Nat and Clint translate was originally going to be Russian, then Danish, but ended up French simply because the potential of having Barton speak French at some point later on was just too delicious.**

 **Hulkeye pour toujours!**

 **And as for the title of this chapter, it's not a reference to the movie, rather how all our heroes are operating on different wavelengths and totally misinterpreting EVERYTHING.**

 **Annnd, I adore reading your comments ... hint, hint :)**


	8. Old Habits and Comfortable Routines

**Chapter 8: Tony starts quizzing Clint on his relationship with Steve, which is maybe not a great thing for the third man in the room to be hearing right now...**

 **Nat encourages Clint to play a more active role in the Doctor's research, telling him to look for something the two geniuses don't see. So far, all Clint sees is a guy who remembers his coffee order at 7am. It's a start.**

* * *

 **Apologies for the delay!** **BUT, here we go, and I really hope you enjoy the update! Rest assured that despite long delays (which I hope to avoid in the future), I won't be abandoning this story. I love writing this pair!**

 **Thank you so, so much to everyone who has read, subscribed/favourited, or left a review since this story began. It really brightens my day and puts a spring in my step to know there are people out there enjoying my writing!**

* * *

 **Under Supervised Conditions**

 **Chapter 8 - Old Habits and Comfortable Routines**

'You've got to stop this, Clint,' Nat's staring him down from the doorway into the lounge, where Clint's just flopped lazily into an armchair, hand already reaching for the remote. 'You're sulking like a petulant child.'

'I'm not _sulking_.' Five days into his mandatory R and R, and oh, he most definitely _was_ sulking.

'Sure, and I'm known for my charity bake sales,' she says, totally dead-pan. Nat moves closer and slides the remote out of his reach, sitting on the edge of the coffee table to face him. 'You've done recovery time before. You know how it goes. It's shit and then it's over.'

'I'm perfectly able to shoot.' He waves his hands as if to prove it. ' _This_ isn't getting in the way,' he prods at the area near his bandaged skin, instantly regretting it.

Nat raises an eyebrow, which translates as: _well that was a fucking stupid thing to do, wasn't it._

He chews at the side of his mouth by way of reply: _perhaps, but I'll never admit it out loud._

She shakes her head, resigned. 'How's it going with Tony and Bruce?'

Clint throws his head back with a grunt. 'They don't need me down there,' he says to the ceiling. 'I don't understand what they're saying most of the time, and Tony's not going anywhere.' Clint was in charge of "Hulk-wrangling duties," as Stark put it, if he wasn't around. Thing was though, there'd been no sign that the other guy was gunna make an appearance, and no sign that Tony was planning on leaving the tower either.

Nat bumps his knee (on the good leg) with her own. 'Try. Go down there. Find an excuse if you have to. Watch Bruce. Run your own tests. Make your own theories. Stark might be the expert with gadgets, but you're sharp, Clint. You're perceptive. Look for something they can't see.'

He wonders how insulted Stark would be to hear his work summed up as "gadgets," but he knows she's got a point. Clint lets his chin fall forward again, tearing his gaze away from the ceiling to look Nat in the eye.

He bumps her knee back.

'You know, when they were running through how this stupid supervision thing would work, Banner didn't even seem fazed. Reckon I was angrier about it than he was. I might be off field work, but at least I can leave the tower.'

Nat shrugs a shoulder. 'He's had to endure worse. We all have.'

'Yeah, well ... it's still a raw deal.'

'So help him. Help run the tests and get this done with. There's no need to over-complicate things.'

Clint huffs. 'This from the woman who tried reading Harry Potter in Latin. _For fun_.'

* * *

His alarm sounds at 5am.

'Awgnmf... ' He's disciplined enough to get up though.

It's remarkable really, just how quick Clint had let bad habits develop. He'd been allowing himself to sleep in. Then there were the late nights, up until the early hours of the morning in his room with a book or movie to pass the time. So yeah, general sulking. Nat was right. But today's about getting back into a better routine, starting with an hour in the range. His preference would be the gym first up in the morning, but most of his normal set's off limits to avoid any damage to his stitches. Sparring with Nat or Steve was definitely out of the question.

He passes the hour effortlessly, every release of an arrow reassuring him that he was still good at something.

He heads back to his suite to shower, shave, check his dressing, and change into clothes that don't look like they double as sleepwear. Aw, who's he trying to kid, practically everything he owns could double as sleepwear or exercise gear. He settles on dark grey cotton pants, and the white shirt with the large blue and red target across the chest, which had been an ironic gift from Nat after a particularly nasty shot he'd taken just below his left collarbone. _So they don't miss next time,_ the note had said. She'd presented it to him with a kiss on the forehead when he'd been given the all clear to resume active duty.

* * *

It's almost 7am, and he's not at all surprised to find Banner in the kitchen before the sun's even come up. The guy operated on his own bizarre schedule.

Clint hangs back for a minute, watching the Doctor move about the space preparing a fresh pot of coffee. He must've pulled an all-nighter, because while he waits for the coffee to brew, he leans into the counter to stretch his back with a low groan, the fabric of his shirt bunching then pulling tight as the muscles shift.

Clint reacts before he can stop himself. His sharp intake of breath taking both of them by surprise.

Banner looks over his shoulder then reaches for two mugs, hooking the handles around an index finger and grabbing the coffee pot with his other hand in a smooth movement.

He's gotten so used to seeing Banner look awkward and out-of-place on the field. It's quite hypnotic to watch him move around a space without reserve. It must be what he's like in the lab too.

One of the mugs is put in front of him as he sits at the high counter. Banner pours out Clint's coffee without a word, then his own. He doesn't bother offering milk. Apparently he's remembered they both take it the same way.

Clint lifts the mug in both hands, enjoying the heat against his palms. The aroma is fucking amazing. It's the good stuff Banner orders in just for himself.

'I'd ask if it were too strong, but I know Natasha raids my supply for you both,' Banner says wryly.

Clint smirks. 'Aw, we thought we were getting away with that.'

'Not a chance,' Banner replies quietly, eyes bright over the top of his own raised mug.

They remain in a comfortable silence as they finish, refill, and sip at their coffees.

Clint becomes aware of Banner looking at his shirt every now and then.

'I know. Not exactly in good taste, but... ' he shrugs, pinching the centre of the target to pull it forward.

'Huh? No, maybe not,' Banner smiles crookedly and looks back at his mug. 'Better make a move,' he says vaguely, standing.

'I was gunna come down later. Is that okay?'

Banner's got his back to him, fussing around at the sink. 'Why wouldn't it be — we'll be in the lab. My lab. Probably. Or Tony's.'

'I'll just ask JARVIS, how about that.'

Banner huffs, 'Well, he'll know where I am. Not like I'll be going out anytime soon.' He seems to process what he's just said and shakes his head, then meets Clint's eye in the reflection of the glass, the sky outside still dark enough that it's practically a mirror. 'I don't know why I said that.'

Clint offers a quick hitch of one side of his mouth. If Nat were around, she'd recognise that as: _you don't have to explain yourself, I get it_. But Banner doesn't know that. 'I get it.'

The other man smiles weakly, looking a little lost in thought as he turns back around. 'How's the injury?'

He hadn't been referring to his recent injury, but doesn't bother clarifying. 'Fucking pain in the ass to be honest.' He clocks Banner's concerned frown. 'It's frustrating. I mean, it's _fine_. It's healing just fine. Only... '

Now it's Banner doing his version of the _I get it_ look. Clint makes a note to remember it, because his eyes look warm and unguarded.

 _Aw, shit, stop looking at his eyes, Barton_ , he thinks. _We've been through this already_. Clint focuses on the dregs of his coffee instead. He's focusing so intently, it takes him a second to register what Banner's saying.

' — check the stitches in a few days.'

Clint groans, 'Aww med-bay, no. I'm sick of that place.' He pushes back against the bench top — the legs of his chair scraping the gloss concrete floor — and moves to rinse out his mug.

Banner shifts at his side, leaning away slightly. 'Oh, I mean, I was going to offer ... I can check them over. But it's probably better if — '

'Could you?' Clint says quickly, 'I mean, seems stupid to go across town to have some kid poke about before sending me straight back.' He makes a real effort to convince Banner (and himself) that's the only reason.

'If we say next Friday then?' Banner's making his way towards the exit in that unsure way of his, where he takes a step backwards then forwards, then a couple back again...

'I'll put it in my diary,' Clint says with a grin, which falters pretty quick, 'I don't ... I don't have a diary... '

Banner snorts, 'Good. I'd hate to think what the diary of Hawkeye would say.' There's a sheepish smile playing at his lips.

Clint's about to respond with something witty and definitely _not_ in the least bit suggestive, when Steve enters from the other doorway.

'Hey,' he says brightly, before he sees Banner. Clint looks over to see Steve weighing up the best course of action, then feels the guy's hand rest on his back. So apparently their act for Tony's benefit extends to Tony's best friend...

Banner clearly doesn't miss the gesture, his gaze following Steve's movement, then flickering back to meet Clint's, looking about as uncomfortable as Clint feels.

'Oh. Ah, don't mind me ... I should get back. Things to do... ' Banner reaches for his glasses but pauses, instead giving a sort of wave goodbye to them both before he exits.

Steve sighs as he drops his hand from Clint's back, 'I'd sure hate to be in his shoes.'

'Huh?'

'He's acting calm, but I know what it's like to have a body that ... won't do what you want it to do.'

Clint hums. Yeah, he's seen the photos of Steve before the serum. ' _Although_ , you must kinda want to be in his shoes.' When Steve looks down at him in confusion, Clint continues, 'I mean, he does get to spend all his time Tony. You'd love that.' He finishes with a smug look.

'Shut up,' Steve says playfully, a flush already creeping into his cheeks.

* * *

Clint's standing in the lift with the three takeaway cups balanced in his hands when he second-guesses his plan.

'Hey, J, are coffees allowed in the lab?'

The trip out had done him good. Plus, it killed all of ... twenty minutes.

'Hot liquids aren't recommended in the labs, Agent Barton,' JARVIS replies, ' _however_ , this doesn't seem to be an observed rule.'

Clint laughs, 'Cheers'

'If you're looking for Doctor Banner and Mr Stark, they're in Workshop Two.'

'Lead the way.'

* * *

' — why we've gotta run the physicals, Bruce.'

'We've been through this,' the Doc's voice replies flatly.

Clint stops short of the doors to the workshop, holding up a hand with the assumption that JARVIS will know he means for him to hold off opening the door. It works, and Clint hangs back as the raised voices filter through the glass.

'How do you know? Huh? How?'

'If the other guy came out every time I was exhausted, you'd be dealing with him every other day. He'd be out _right now_.'

'Look, I hear you. I really do, but you know some kid with a clipboard at S.H.I.E.L.D is gunna want to tick it off a list.'

There's a resigned sigh, very faint, but Clint hears it.

'Question is, you wanna run the tests here or there? ... Sorry, what was that?'

' _Here_.'

'Right answer. I'll clear the gym for tomorrow. And you know, I was thinking — don't make that face — where do you stand on ice baths?'

'As far away from them as possible,' Banner says in a droll tone. Clint snorts, blowing the element of surprise.

'I did a coffee run,' he says, entering the room, trying to avoid the temptation to favour his uninjured leg as he walks. 'Don't assume this is going to be a regular thing.'

Stark's sat facing a holographic screen in the middle of the room, apparently planning a heart-rate raising workout for his friend. Clint places a cup within the man's reach. Banner's leaning against a workbench littered with scorched metal parts.

'You shouldn't be on that leg for extended periods,' the latter says, slipping effortlessly into his duty-of-care tone.

'Aw, come on. Fancied a walk, that's all. Thought I'd put in my supervision hours... ' that gets an eye roll from Banner. Clint clears his throat, 'You know, an ice bath isn't a bad idea, would give the old respiratory system a shock. Plus great for ... the skin. Apparently.' _Yeah, and for other things._

Banner takes the cup offered to him when Clint holds it out, one eyebrow raised.

'Cold showers are an old habit,' he elaborates innocently, 'can't rely on hot water during jobs. Just got used to it after awhile. Must have been the same with you in India, right? I heard you were livin' on the fringes out there, Banner.' _Why_ , why the hell is he talking about showering?

'Ugh!' Tony's disgusted cry saves Clint from continuing his plumbing-based conversation. Stark's holding his coffee as far away from himself as he can. 'Seriously Legolas, _black_? You're as bad as Bruce.'

'Hot and smooth,' Banner croons, taking his first sip.

'Just how I like my men,' Clint adds flawlessly, with a crooked smile.

Bruce splutters while Tony simply smirks.

'Well that hardly sounds like the Cap, does it?' Tony says. 'Hot and smooth? More like hot and awkward.'

So Stark could admit Steve was good looking. _Interesting_.

'Tony... ' Banner says, a note of warning in his voice.

'No, I'm serious. I just can't imagine it's gone too far. You kissed him yet, Legolas?'

There's a clunk from behind him, followed by a mutter. Clint glances over to see Banner dabbing at the bottom of his shirt where his coffee's spilled out.

Clint turns back to Tony, choosing to adopt Nat's technique of a blank expression paired with vague answers. 'You know, I reckon it's none of your business.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah. Why're you so interested anyway?'

'Well, because I find it a little hard to believe. I mean really, you? And the Cap? The guy who goes red whenever there's a sex scene in a film?'

He snorts, 'You'd be surprised how different he is when it's actually happening.' Okay, so he's going into uncharted territory with the lie now... Not that Tony's so easy to convince.

'Nope. Not buying it.'

'Hey, I'm not bringing you proof, Stark.'

'Come on man, work with me. Birthmarks, freckles, "I heart Bucky Barnes" tattoos?'

'You know that's all on file. All I'll say is I'm not his first _anything_.' Yeah, he's pretty happy with that. Vague, but accurate.

Tony raises an eyebrow, skeptical.

Clint _really_ can't understand Steve's interest in the guy. He just stares him down, relishing the height advantage of Stark sitting and him standing while he can.

'This coffee is awful,' Tony mutters eventually.

Ha, he'd definitely won the round.

'I don't understand how you can stomach it,' Tony says distractedly as he searches for something, anything, to get the taste out.

'Ignore him. He gets though gallons of it in a week,' Bruce chimes in.

'Yeah, _with milk_ ,' Tony says, now chewing a stick of gum he's found in a welding apron pocket. 'You want something done right, do it yourself,' he grabs one of the many mugs that have wound up in the lab and makes a beeline for the door, presumably to go up to the kitchen.

'Dear diary, pissed-off a billionaire today.' He pivots around to look at the Doc, who's smiling.

'Thank you,' Banner says, indicating to the coffee.

'No trouble. Any excuse to get out for a bit.' Clint's shoulders slump. 'Fuck, I didn't mean... Sorry, Doc.'

Bruce shrugs. 'I've spent long periods in the tower before. I mean, it was my choice, not under directives ... I do miss fresh air though.'

Clint's uncharacteristically quiet for a while as he drinks his coffee and shifts his weight from one leg to the other.

'Is the rule that you can't leave the tower or that you can't go outside?'

Banner blinks quickly. 'The first.'

Clint's face lights up, 'Well that's one problem sorted!'

'I'm sorry?'

He grins, 'The roof. There's plenty of space up there to just ... get away.'

'Yeah, I don't know how that sits with the supervision — '

'Look, just let me know when you want a break, an I'll join you. Promise I won't get in your way, just ... let me know, yeah?'

Banner relents with a small nod.

Clint makes a move to leave, then realises Tony's still away. He could just go. How likely is it the guy's gunna flip now, really? But it'd still look bad...

Banner chuckles. 'You just realised you're on baby sitting duty, didn't you?'

'Sorry.'

The Doctor shrugs again.

Clint opts for roaming around the workshop, taking advantage of the fact Stark's not there to tell him not to touch. He ends up at the counter Banner's leaning on, looking closer at the scorched junk between them.

'Know what it was?'

Banner frowns at the parts. 'Doesn't look suit related.'

He tilts his head. 'Reckon it's to do with that prototype?'

Banner looks blankly back at him for a moment before it dawns on him, 'Oh ... ah, I think that's been put on the back-burner to be honest.' He looks guilty.

'Aw, no worries. I've barely worn-in the latest one he made.'

As he tips his head back to drain the last dregs, he recalls Nat's instructions to help Banner out.

'You remember anything else about what happened before the other guy?'

Banner frowns, focusing on the lid of the paper cup in his hands. 'It wasn't like I blacked out or... Everything was clear ... until it wasn't.' He reaches for his glasses, but he falters, starts toying with the edge of the lid instead.

'What were the rest of us doing? Maybe there'd been a sound or something which had been the trigger?'

Banner shakes his head. 'There's nothing out of place. And I had headphones on most of the trip. I think, I think maybe I was already trying to stay calm. I don't know. I don't... I saw Tony getting his suit ready, you and Steve were talking, then we landed and everyone moved — '

Clint notices the way the other man's focusing elsewhere, using his hand to gesture where everyone was standing in the jet as though he's visualising the scene.

'What I can't understand is... when he kicks in without ... permission ... it's been to protect me, like when I've been pushed of a ledge, or ... with the bullet, or going through the floor on the helicarrier — '

Clint feels his blood drain downwards. Banner reaches for him quickly, gripping his wrist. He can feel the light but purposeful pressure through the layers of his hoodie and coat sleeves.

'Sorry, I didn't mean... Just, it's a self-preservation thing. That's what I meant. And it's quick. It's instantaneous. _This?_ This built up. I felt it coming for days. Tony wants to hook me up to monitors in the gym and push this heart rate theory, but I just... '

'You already know it's a waste of time?'

Banner gives a week smile.

'What do _you_ want to do?' Clint asks.

The grip around his wrist drops away.

'I what to let Tony run his tests anyway.' He catches Clint's skeptical look. 'He's right, someone over at S.H.I.E.L.D's going to want to tick it off the checklist.'

Clint nods and drums tunelessly agains the side of his empty cup.

'Clint?' Banner says his name like he's testing it out, all low and scratchy. 'Just to be clear, I don't blame you for the helicarrier.'

He doesn't get a chance to respond — the workshop doors slide open and Tony returns with a mug of pretty weak looking coffee. He has to snort at that.

Tony ignores him as he sets about powering up the holographic charts and graphs again. 'Look, I know we said you're on light duties, Katniss, but standin' around doing fuck-all is taking it a bit far.'

'Tony... ' Bruce says,

'Nah, it's fine,' Clint says. 'I came down to help out anyway.' He makes for a chair in one corner of the room. As he slumps down into it, hooking his knees over an armrest, he has to bite down hard on the side of his mouth to ignore the wave of pain that shoots up from the cut in his thigh. It's worth it though. Tony's clearly irked.

'Yeah? And what are you going to do from over there?'

'Help.' Clint replies shortly.

* * *

So Banner has this thing he does, and sure, Clint's seen him do it before, but he never picked up on the _why_. It's to do with his glasses. He fiddles with them constantly if he has nothing else to occupy his hands. He adjusts them, he pushes then back up with the second knuckle of his right hand — but he uses his left hand to raise them and pinch the bridge of his nose. And then there's the feint. Banner reaches, pauses, and instead wraps his fingers around thin air like he still has to grab hold of something.

Clint's seen him do it twice already today.

The third time, Tony's been talking in circles about the possible how's and why's and what's of Banner's turn on the field. The Doc's giving as good as he's getting, answering and correcting with a short yes or no. But then it's _I don't know_.

'I don't know.'

'I don't _know_.'

' _Tony_ , I don't know.'

And then he does it. The feint. It's what he does when he just ... can't do anything else.

' — you doing?' Tony's voice snaps Clint out of his thoughts.

'Huh?'

Stark raises an eyebrow. 'You zoned out. What are you doing?'

'Watching.'

'Yeah? Well your phone's been flashing with message alerts.' Tony crosses his arms, giving off so much sass. 'So much for the amazing _Hawkeye_.'

'It's Steve,' he replies without missing a beat, wiping the smug look right off the other man's face. Yeah, he'd seen the messages flash up in his peripheral vision. Of course he had. He knew it wasn't urgent though — aka, work related — because no one else's phone had gone.

To annoy Stark that little bit more, he _very slowly_ reaches for his phone, not breaking eye contact until the message is pulled up.

 **05:41pm SR to CB**

Did you want to hang out later?

 **05:53pm NR to CB**

Steve's looking for you

Huh, he hadn't seen the messages from Nat arriving alongside Steve's.

 **05:53pm SR to CB**

Oh, Natasha says you're helping Bruce. Never mind.

 **05:54pm SR to CB**

Isn't Tony around?

 **05:55pm SR to CB**

Natasha says you're helping both of them. Don't rile Tony up. Please. Coulson's coming in later tonight to go over the Greenland op.

 **05:57pm NR to CB**

He keeps taking about Tony

It takes him a moment to get around Steve's formal texts and the niggling concern of Nat's tone, well the tone he reads her messages with, anyway.

 **06:01pm CB to NR**

Don't go there.

 **06:01pm CB to SR**

I'll leave him alone. What's the latest on the op?

 **06:02pm SR to CB**

It will be easier to tell you in person. I hate these things. Whose lab are you in?

Clint's going to assume Steve's referring to the phone... Tony kept messing with the settings to make everything appear more complicated than it was.

'Was it Rogers?' Tony asks, feigning indifference.

'Yup.'

'He in the tower?'

'Uh-huh.'

'Tell him to come down,' Tony says. Clint catches the odd smile he gives Banner. 'We can get his two cents on the physical.'

Banner coughs, 'No, I think we're done here. We can ... we can meet him in the lounge.'

'Phil's on his way to go through the Greenland op,' Clint adds.

 **06:04pm CB to SR**

We're on our way up. Meet in the lounge.

 **06:04pm NR to CB**

Clint?

* * *

As they make their way to the lift, Tony hooks Clint by the elbow to pull him back. Banner's ahead of them down the hall and doesn't notice.

'If I get called out with this, an I'm guessing I will, I need to know... ' Tony sucks in his cheeks and crosses his arms. 'Look after him, okay.'

Okay. Now he gets what Steve sees in the guy. Strip away the sarcasm and bull shit, and the guy actually cares.

'Count on it.'

* * *

 **I can not tell you just how much I debated (with myself) which language Nat would read teen/YA fiction in for fun... It couldn't be something she'd presumably know, but had to be something the book had really been printed in... I've read some great fan fics in the past where she enjoys the genre, so this is my nod to that haha.**

 **Next chapter will be in Bruce's PoV and pick up pretty much where this one concludes.**

 **Thanks again for reading, and I hope you're continuing to enjoy the story!**


	9. Some Things Break Easy

**Chapter 9: Some things break easily, quietly, with the faintest snap. Others, like a realisation, feel like an earthquake.**

 **Before flying out, Nat decides on a more direct approach in helping Bruce.**

* * *

 **This chapter picks up a couple hours after the previous one concludes, and includes quite a few allusions back to it (so revisiting ch 8 might be handy thanks to my terribly long intervals between uploads)**

 **I made some tough choices with this chapter, skipping and chopping the beginnings and endings of "scenes" (or, tableaus?). My reasoning there was that as we're in Banner's PoV, he's tired from being up for the past 36 hours, he's got other things on his mind, so what he does notice is made that little bit more significant. Can you tell I really enjoy overthinking the little details?!**

 **I hope you enjoy this update, thank you to everyone who is still reading despite my delays in posting updates, and a huge shout out to those leaving such positive, encouraging comments. I love reading how you're enjoying the story, discovering a love of HulkEye, or picking up on little references between the chapters!**

* * *

 **Under Supervised Conditions**

 **Chapter 9 - Some Things Break Easy**

Tony manages to look apologetic when Bruce isn't asked to join the meeting with Coulson in the conference room.

He's a little surprised to see Barton follow the group, leaving him "unsupervised."

It's one of those times when he's not sure whether to be flattered or insulted, either Barton trusts him to be on his own, or he doesn't care at all.

Whichever it is, Barton's understanding of this ridiculous supervision requirement is, well, _temperamental_.

He feels silly just waiting in the common area on his own ... while the _functional_ members of the team get on with work. He's nearing exhaustion, having been awake for the past thirty-six hours, but decides to wait. After a few idle minutes, Bruce slumps into his usual corner of the lounge and reaches for the paperback tucked between the armrest and the cushion at the other end. It's Clint's. He'd seen him reading it last week. _Nineteen Eighty-Four_. Bruce knew it well — one of those works he'd devoured and analysed in college. The copy in his hands is worn and soft, like it's been handled and bent and tucked away into places for years. He flicks through the pages, mildly curious where the archer's up to, but there are dog-eared corners throughout the whole thing.

Bruce starts reading from a random page towards the end.

...

He's starting to drift off at the last paragraph when Barton re-enters the room, shrugging out of his coat as he walks and tossing it onto an armchair.

'All right,' he says, clapping his hands together. 'Here's what I got before they realised I'd snuck into the meeting, they fly out tomorrow morning, for at least a few days. Nat, Steve, Phil, Tin Can, and FitzSimmons.' He's ticking the names off his fingers as he collapses back into the other corner of the lounge. 'They're meeting up with a small group of local agents when they land.' He raises his eyebrows, 'All good here?'

Bruce blinks wearily. 'Well, you missed it,' he replies flatly, not looking up from the paperback. 'Code Green and you weren't around to supervise.'

'Funny,' Barton replies, dead-pan except for a glint in his eye. He hunches forward to strip his hoodie off. 'What do you want to eat? They're ordering for themselves down there. Reckon it'll go on a couple hours.' Barton indicates behind him with a tilt of his head.

'Don't mind — ' He stifles a yawn. 'You choose.'

Clint starts saying something about a Thai place, trailing off as he searches through his phone to place an order. He glances over as Bruce puts the paperback on the coffee table in front of them both.

'I'm intrigued by the choice,' Bruce says, 'I mean ... it's... '

Barton raises an eyebrow, 'What, modern classics aren't my speed? You thought I'd be a spies and dames kinda guy? Honestly, I get enough of that at work.'

'No, no, that's not what I meant!' He's seen Barton do this before, grin and laugh while putting himself down, like he's encouraging the idea that he's not as smart or layered as he actually is.

They fall into a somewhat awkward silence after that, Bruce feeling awful that he couldn't get his words right in the first place.

When the food arrives it gives them something to do at least.

Meanwhile, his attention is continually drawn to Barton's shirt. He tells himself it's because of the distracting target motif, but that doesn't quite explain why he's watching how the cotton pulls and stretches across the archer's shoulders and back with each movement he makes...

'They'll probably see the Aurora Borealis this time of year,' Bruce muses aloud, more to the piece of tofu he's just over-enthusiastically stabbed with his fork than to Clint.

'What?'

'The Northern Lights?'

'Aw, I always wanted to see that. I mean, in person, you know?'

'It's quite special. There's a similar phenomena in the southern hemisphere. Maybe you've seen that one?'

'Don't get much time for lookin' up if I'm honest, Doc.' Clint takes a big mouthful of food, chews a bit, then starts talking around the last of it, 'Still, could always get Nat to send me a postcard.'

Bruce can't stop his little snort of laughter at that.

They eat in silence for a while, but somehow, it doesn't feel so awkward anymore. It's only once the food's gone that Bruce feels he ought to pick up the conversation, or maybe just call it a night —

'I like it,' Clint says suddenly. Bruce looks over to see him nod at the book. 'Phil gave me his copy just after he became my handler. He said it was one of those things people always quoted from without reading it, said if I wanted to understand how bad things could get, I had to read it. Actually, sometimes I hate it.'

Barton springs up from the lounge, leaning his weight on the uninjured leg, and disappears into the kitchen, emerging only a few seconds later with two longnecks. He releases the caps using the hem of his shirt for grip, and hands one to Bruce.

'I got through it the first night I couldn't sleep on a job. My ears were ringing from an explosion and I thought if I closed my eyes... Anyway, Nat got me _that_ copy about six years back. Pages are starting to come loose.' He smiles, takes a long gulp of his beer. 'You're probably all about the highbrow stuff though, right Banner?'

'Ha, hardly.' He lifts the bottle to take a sip but pauses, smiling at a sudden thought, 'JARVIS keeps making Jane Austen references to me,' he admits.

Barton smiles. 'What's he say, _Oh Mr Banner, keep your bonnet on_?' He's got the beer raised to his lips, and somehow manages to keep the smile going while he gulps away.

The fact that Bruce nearly spits out his beer trying not to laugh can be blamed entirely on the high pitched awful, awful accent that Barton adopts.

'No, no,' he wipes his mouth with the rolled cuff of his shirt. 'Just little jibes about carriages and invitations to dinner.'

'Whole lot of attitude for a fucking voice in the sky.' Barton says lightly, but they simultaneously look cautiously up to the closest blue-lit monitor in the ceiling. When they catch each other's eye they both grin.

...

'Hey, sleeping beauty!'

Bruce startles, his chin slipping from where it'd been resting on his palm, propped against the armrest.

'What an awful sight to wake up to,' he grumbles, pushing his glasses back into place, bringing Tony's face into sharp focus as he leans over the back of the lounge.

'Cute. Meeting ran long,' Tony explains. 'I see you two are clearly thrilled to be left alone, what'd you do, bore each other to sleep?'

Bruce shifts to look at Barton properly. The archer has the mildly confused look of someone who's just been woken up. The paperback — open and resting on his chest — falls to the floor with a dull thud, just missing the empty longneck bottle.

'Started talking about you, Stark,' Clint drawls, raking his hands through his hair and over his face. 'Couldn't keep my eyes open.'

The light in the room changes suddenly. Natasha's reached down between them to take the television remote and turn it off. Oddly, it seemed to already be on mute.

 _Ah_ , now he remembers. They'd decided to watch something ... not that Bruce can recall anything after the opening credits... He checks the time. He'd been asleep for over an hour. Bruce glances around at who else is in the room —

'The others left directly from the meeting,' Natasha says, apparently following Bruce's thought process. 'Steve saw them out — '

There's a sudden noise from Tony. 'Damn, I forgot to ask Rogers about running those tests with you in the gym. I won't be able to, need to check-in with Pepper before we fly out — '

'I'll do it,' Natasha interjects.

Tony looks skeptical.

'Who do you think taught Roger's his technique?' She picks up Clint's coat and takes a seat in the armchair. ' _I'll do it._ '

'She's got you there,' Clint mutters as he stands to leave, taking his coat from Natasha. Bruce isn't the only one who notices how he grimaces when he puts weight on his healing leg. 'Night,' he says to no one in particular, but offers Bruce a tired smile as he rounds the corner into the hall.

'Didn't they give him something for the pain?' Tony asks, actually seeming to give a damn. Bruce wonders if maybe he's feeling guilty for going on about "light duties" earlier.

He answers at the same time as Natasha.

'We can't build up a tolerance — '

'There's a risk his system — Sorry, Natasha.'

'No, go ahead,' she says.

'Ah, well... ' He's a little distracted by the way she's watching him. 'With consistent use of pain killers, the body's system would build up a tolerance. Meaning future doses would have to be upped to achieve the same relief. Eventually, with the ah, likelihood of frequent injuries, his system would have little if not no response to pain relief. And, um, I'm guessing S.H.I.E.L.D doesn't want that problem?'

Natasha tilts her chin up. 'Of course, if it's life threatening, someone will probably intervene,' she adds as an afterthought.

'Well that's ... efficient,' Tony offers. He turns to Bruce, 'You calling it a night, or should I expect you in the lab?'

'I need sleep — '

That gets a _tsk_ from Tony, but he says his good-nights and goes.

Natasha hesitates briefly once Tony's gone. Bruce only notices because it's not something she normally does. 'The rest will get to him,' she continues. 'He needs to be kept occupied. He'll want to go to the range. Let him.' She uncrosses her legs and rises smoothly from the armchair. 'If you can't find him for some reason, he'll either be in the vents or on the roof.'

'Great, well, that's convenient,' he says dryly. 'Confined spaces and great heights, my favourite kinds of places.

This earns a smirk from Natasha.

'I'll see you tomorrow. Get some rest.'

* * *

He arrives in the gym early, unsure of what Natasha's got planned for him.

She's waiting for him over by the exercise bikes. Surely that can't be it, he'd done these basic fitness tests days ago. Tony wants to push him to the point of physical and mental exhaustion. He can't imagine how he can become the latter just by peddling...

He's reached Natasha when a noise draws his attention to his left. Clint Barton's leaning against the wall, focused completely on his phone screen.

'Shirt off, get these on,' Natasha's holding the wireless heat and heart rate sensors in her outstretched palm. ' _Off_. It restricts your movement, effects the monitors,' she rakes her eyes down his body in an obvious way as Bruce starts on his shirt buttons, top to bottom. 'Doesn't it, Clint?'

Bruce snaps his gaze up at the mention of Barton, who looks away from his phone when Natasha addresses him with a questioning _hmm?_ quickly looking between the pair.

'Aw — ' he focuses on Natasha. 'What'd you say?'

Bruce shucks off his shirt, rolling his shoulders back as he grabs the cuffs to pull the sleeves down over his arms. Okay, the fitted purple shirt may of been a mistake.

'If you're not going to help, Clint, you can go,' she says curtly.

' _If I'm not going to_ — hang on, you told me to come!'

'So trousers off too?' Bruce asks sarcastically, _really_ hoping she says no.

'Just the shirt,' she confirms.

Is he imagining the slight smirk?

'You know,' Bruce mutters, as he places the coin-sized monitors on his chest, abdominal muscles, wrists, and neck, 'if I didn't know better, I'd be a little concerned you're getting some twisted sense of pleasure from this.'

'Oh don't worry, she is,' Barton says, before clearing his throat.

Bruce looks up in time to see Natasha turn to her friend with an ambiguous look which sends the archer away with his hands held up in mock surrender.

'Alright, on the bike. Repeating sets of five minutes sitting, two minutes standing, one minute rest.'

'Just some advance warning, exhausting me isn't going to work. It's not physical.' Bruce gets on the sleek exercise bike anyway.

'I know it isn't,' Natasha says, not meeting his eye as she selects settings from the touch-screen.

'You do — What's this about then?' he indicates the monitors attached to his torso.

'Curiosity,' she replies simply, 'I'm testing a theory.'

'Care to share, agent Romanov?'

The look she gives him is purely wicked as she touches the timer to start.

Bruce starts peddling, pushing any doubt from his mind as he focuses on reading the monitor's updates flashing up on the screen.

It's just as he thought, after forty minutes going through the sets, nothing's spiked. Bruce channels his frustration into picking up the pace until Natasha calls for him to stop, handing him a towel to wipe down the sheen of sweat after he's removed the monitors.

It's while he's gulping down a bottle of water that his gaze falls on Barton — 'What's he _doing_?'

' _Lunges_ ,' she says with a sigh. Bruce can practically hear the eye-roll. 'He started it as a joke years ago, said it was to psyche himself up. Now I think he just does them without realising. It usually means he's trying to work through a spike in the pain from an injury.'

'But ... why's he staying?' Bruce asks, his breathing a bit shaky from the previous standing section of the peddling. 'I would've thought he'd want to see ... to see Steve before you all fly out?' Okay, he's definitely out of breath. He's cooling down too quickly, he realises. He starts rubbing at his arms and chest with the towel as a shiver passes over him —

'You boys are all idiots,' she says quietly.

No, not _over_ him. _Through him_.

Fuck.

But he's not even _doing_ anything. There's nothing to — He jerks forward, reacting to a sensation in his gut like someone's just pulled a knot tight inside of him.

 _Not now. Not now. Notnownotnownotnow._

Yes, because reasoning with the other guy _always_ works. In his heart, he knows he's not going to change, but that doesn't put him at ease...

Nat leans in close as he hunches over to roll his shoulders, her chin balanced on her crossed arms over the handle bars, putting them eye-to-eye. She _has_ to see that he's not right. _Has to_.

'Do you want him to go?' She asks quietly, her tone even as she watches his face intently.

'Wha— hmm... '

 _A low, pained sound escapes him_.

Why the hell is she asking him about Barton when he's clearly got other concerns right now?

 _Another prickly wave rolls under his skin._

Actually, it makes sense — is she worried about Barton being in the room if he turns?

 _He sucks in a deep shaky breath. He can't get enough air in_ —

That has to be it. Clint's injured. Compromised. She's looking out for him.

He'd do the same.

He lurches forward, finally able to get enough air in to regulate his breathing.

 _He'd do the same._

It goes. Just like that. Nothing. The encroaching wave simply dissipates.

' _Idiots_ ,' Nat mutters again, under her breath.

Bruce looks up at her in shock. He'd been losing control, right there, right in front of her, and she's still laying on the insults. Natasha's watching him though, looking him over with curiosity, inspecting him.

'The monitors?' he asks pointlessly, moving himself slowly off the bike and rolling out the muscles in his back and shoulders.

'All off.' She turns away from him as he downs half a bottle of water.

Bruce figures he'll just wait for Natasha, certain that she's going to want him to make notes or something, content in the meantime to get his thoughts in order. When he's finished the other half of the bottle, he looks to Natasha ... except ... Natasha's watching Clint.

She almost looks sad. 'Remember what I said, Bruce? Watch him.'

Bruce does. Clint's looking through a selection of resistance equipment on a shelf against the back wall. He picks out a hand grip and tests it out.

'Still think you shoulda done an ice bath,' Barton calls out in a teasing, melodic way. _Of course he knew they were watching him_. He glances over his shoulder for a split second, well, long enough for Bruce to register the look of embarrassment on his face.

Bruce self-consciously crosses his arms against his chest. It's not like anyone on the team hasn't seen him in less ... but here, in the gym — the domain of Steve, Natasha, and Clint — he's feeling a little feeble in comparison. Sure, he's strong enough, fit and lean with muscle from all the years he's spent on the run or lying low, but no one was ever going to be impressed by his body, not in this form, anyway. The other guy was another matter entirely.

'What was this about?' Bruce asks under his breath as he puts on his shirt, doing the buttons up from the bottom to the top, getting flustered when he fumbles. 'You said you knew it wasn't physical.'

'I'm going to be blunt, Bruce.' Natasha warns. He wouldn't expect her to be any other way. Skirting around the facts had never been her style. 'I know it's not about control. I think he knows you want something.'

He doesn't waste time on the dozen other questions or rebuttals his academic mind would normally start with, instead jumping to just one word, one question.

'What?' He tries to keep his tone light, but he feels the falter in his voice. 'What could I possibly want?'

She goes to say something, but seems to reconsider. After a moment, Natasha meets his eye.

'Affection.'

* * *

Bruce really can't say how he got back to his room. Or why he's laying on his back, staring at the ceiling. It wasn't that he'd blacked it out. It was ... like moving through a haze.

 _Affection_.

He could of protested. He could of talked Natasha out of her theory.

But...

He knew she wasn't wrong. Deep down, it was like a sigh of relief, like that part of him was relieved to be identified.

Surely, _surely_ it couldn't be as basic as that.

Though, really, when had something like that been basic. Basic feelings, basic urges, basic needs? They would be air, food, water, sleep. Nourishment. Necessities.

Affection? _Love_? They were ... well, Bruce had pushed those from his head long ago. He'd pushed them so far that ... what? The other guy had picked up on it? That wasn't what tied them together.

 _Anger_. That was their bond. Between Bruce and ... _him_. And once he'd acknowledged the link, he could control it. What had he said a few years back? _That_ was his secret? That he was _always_ angry?

He shakes his head a little at the memory, rolling his eyes at his own melodrama.

He wasn't an angry person. Not really. He knew the jokes others made about how calm, how mellow he was.

It was _because_ he acknowledged it, allowed it to remain just at the surface, ready to turn to his advantage when needed.

Bruce controlled _it_. _It_ didn't control him.

Except, something other than rage or anger was now fighting its way out.

He's very still on his bed, suddenly aware of every heartbeat, every pulse of blood through his veins, every involuntary twitch or twinge in his muscles. He breathes slowly through his nose, worried that if he opens his mouth, he's either going to cry, or laugh.

 _Affection_.

There's no way Tony can find out about this. He'd never let him live it down. That's why he's tempted to laugh.

And the urge to cry? To grit his teeth and shake from the pained frustration? That's because of the dozen questions circling through his mind — Why now? What kind of affection was he looking for? From here? In the tower? Tony loves him. Bruce feels the same. They're like brothers. No doubt or question there. So if it's not just about that sort of love, the kind where you know someone's got your back, then what kind was it? Who the hell would love him in any other kind of way. Who _could_. He was ... He wasn't a sensible choice for anyone.

Okay, now he has to laugh. It's a sad, self-pitying laugh, but a laugh none the less. When had loving someone ever been about sensible choices.

* * *

One shower, two hours, and a minor identity crisis later, Bruce is standing by the quinjet landing pad, the doors open onto a cold morning sky.

He had to come down to see the team off, of course he did.

Tony's already checked in with him, chatting away about goodness-knows-what while Bruce tried his hardest not to look like a man who'd just had his understanding ... _shaken_.

He'd spoken with Coulson, Steve, and Fitz-Simmons, who were all standing together as a group. Clint had joined them a few minutes in, apparently with the singular purpose of riling Coulson up — it was his own special way of wishing him the best for the mission.

He's moving over to a side wall to get away from the chill blowing in when someone touches the small of his back.

' _Bruce_ ,' Natasha pulls him to one side. 'I think I made a mistake.'

He grimaces. 'No. No, you ... I think you were right.'

She lays a hand on his arm. 'I mean that I shouldn't have brought it to your attention on the same day we're all leaving you. I was impatient.'

Bruce frowns at her.

'I should of waited. I'm concerned that I'm leaving you in a ... in a worse position.' She seems to be chastising herself, glancing over her shoulder at the rest of the team boarding the quinjet.

'Natasha?' He waits until she's looking him in the eye again. 'It's okay. _It's messed up_ , but it's ... manageable. Don't feel bad.'

She surveys him for a moment, but gives a slight nod. Her hand slides away from his arm, though not before she's given his hand a light squeeze.

'Natasha, ah... ' he pinches the bridge of his nose under his glasses. 'Could I ask a favour?' She raises an eyebrow. 'Ah, could you ... I know this is stupid, but could you get Clint a ... a postcard of the Northern Lights?' He tilts his head and shrugs, knowing full well that it's an odd request, the question sounding absolutely ridiculous out loud.

Natasha eyes him. A smile starts to creep onto her otherwise composed features. It takes over, and all of a sudden she's grinning. Bruce watches as she nods, looks down, bites at her bottom lip, and defaults back to her cool, steely expression. With one last look, she's striding off to the jet's loading ramp and then, she's out of sight.

As the quinjet leaves, Barton makes his way back inside.

'Come on Banner, it's fucking freezing out here.' He claps Bruce lightly on the chest as he passes. It sends a jolt though his body, starting at the point of contact. For a second, Bruce thinks it's the warning sign for another spontaneous episode.

But it's different.

It's warm.

It purrs.

Bruce closes his eyes and hangs his head.

 _Definitely not a sensible choice_.

He opens his eyes and follows.

* * *

 **There we are ... Bruce is finally aware of things ... sort of. Not that it's much good to him while Clint is keeping up with this charade with Steve. I'm sure Nat will have something to say about that when she gets the chance.**

 **As I've been writing this, I've loved how the theme of supervision has developed. Everyone on the team is watching someone else. Even choices made for other reasons have fit the theme, like Clint's book...**

 **Thank you for reading! Positive comments/reviews are always welcome! I wish I could reply to them like I can on Archive of Our Own :/**


	10. No Place to Hide

**Chapter 10: With everyone else leaving for the op, Clint and Bruce spend their first day alone in the tower. Whatever it is that's weighing on Banner's mind following his tests with Nat earlier in the morning, well, it's caught Clint's attention.**

* * *

 **So ... sorry there's been yet another massive break between updates. Please don't hate me ... honestly, it was never my intention to turn this slow burn into a SUPER slow burn... Let's just say it's been an "interesting" few months.**

 **I really, really hope you enjoy this chapter, which leads on directly from the previous one. Please feel free to leave any positive feedback or comments! It brings a smile to my face to read them!**

* * *

 **Under Supervised Conditions**

 **Chapter 10 - No Place to Hide**

'Come on Banner, it's fucking freezing out here.' He claps Bruce lightly on the chest as he passes, immediately cringing when he feels the man twitch under his touch. Great. What'd he go and do that for. Nat had said to be gentle with him after their little test this morning.

He spins around to face Banner, who's frowning at the floor. Hmm. 'So ... any ideas what we do now? Whole damn tower to ourselves.'

There's a delayed response, as Bruce blinks very quickly, but it's the cool voice of JARVIS who speaks next —

'Excuse the interruption. This might be an opportunity to remind you of the reports Agent Coulson is waiting on.'

Clint groans. 'Right, yeah, no.' He catches Banner's look, 'Hey, don't give me that. Phil's not even around.' He rolls his eyes. 'Fine. Later. I wanna test some things in the range. That still counts as proper work.'

Bruce's face softens, 'As long as it's not straining that.' He nods at Clint's leg.

'Yeah, yeah.'

'Would you mind if I just ... took some time out?' Bruce smooths down the front of his dress shirt while he speaks, like he's trying to iron the creases out with his hands. 'I might've had a, ah, sort of a breakthrough on this thing so I should ... make some notes.'

He's concerned that Banner doesn't sound too happy about the breakthrough, but he's not gonna push him on it. _Yet_. 'Look, no offence, but you seem kinda agitated — don't give me that look, the "you don't know the half of it" look — and I'm guessing you haven't had much down time in the last couple days, so I think we should stick together.'

It's true, Banner's looking a little off-colour ... Not in a green way though, which is an important detail. Shit, should he be looking out for that? Or checking his eyes? He meets Banner's gaze and does a cursory evaluation. Brown. That warm brown that definitely doesn't send a little jolt to his system.

Bruce clears his throat.

Yeah, okay, he'd been staring. 'Right, so, either I watch you do your notes or whatever in your lab, which is _fine_ , or you work down in the range with me. I don't think there's really any crossover of things we both want to do — ' He almost finished that sentence with "together," but fuck, thank goodness for those rare times he managed to self edit. He's really got to shake that image of a shirtless Banner from his mind. Nat had definitely been drawing his attention to that on purpose...

Banner seems to deliberate for a while. 'I probably need a break from the lab,' he mutters, removing his glasses and pocketing them against his chest.

'What!' Clint teases, 'The good doctor admitting he needs a break? Madness. You really are ill! Can I have that on the record?'

Bruce looks wary, but there's a flicker of a tired smile.

'Come on then, let me show you Stark's playground — his name for it, not mine, believe me.'

'Oh, I believe you. Can we get a few things on the way?'

* * *

Clint shadows the other man as they stop by the lab — although once they're there, Banner doesn't seem to know what he wants.

'Just give me a few minutes. I'll know what I'm looking for when I see it... ' Banner ducks down behind a counter to riffle through papers and books.

Clint shrugs and flops down into the chair in the corner of the room, pulling a throw blanket out from behind his back and bunching it in his lap. 'I figured Stark was joking when he said you slept down here.' The knitted yarn is soft and thick as he toys with the edge. It feels brand new, even has that fresh store-bought smell.

'Yeah, well... ' Banner rights himself, a sleek tablet and a battered cloth-covered notebook in his hands. He huffs out a laugh when he sees Clint. 'That's new,' he nods at the throw. 'Tony knew I might be spending a night or two down here then.' He gestures at the door vaguely, 'We can go... '

Clint springs up pretty damn gracefully for a man who can't put much weight on his left leg, and drapes the throw over the back of the chair.

* * *

The range. Stark's main selling point for getting Clint to move into the tower. A whole space just for him. Well, sometimes Nat. He was fine with that. But apart from Nat, this was his domain.

There was a modern take on a traditional linear shooting range which would have been enough to pique Clint's interest in the tower, however, it was the other feature which made it a done deal. The field simulator. A large, double-height, glass enclosed space, which could be set to digitally reproduce endless tactical scenarios or courses. When Nat had first seen it, she said Stark had clearly stolen the idea from The Hunger Games. Or maybe it was the other way round. He can't remember.

He doesn't bother showing Banner around — instead simply pointing him in the general direction of some place he can sit.

While Bruce settles into the little couch (which Clint and Nat had _definitely not_ liberated from one of the empty offices one night after a bottle of vodka and a nonsensical game of truth or dare), Clint gets on with planning what he wants to do, choosing to stick with the traditional range and getting used to how Stark's latest bow design handles his trick arrows. He'd spent an hour with it the other morning just going through the basics, working with different angles etc., but he needs to get used to how it handles anything from a putty arrow to an explosive tip. Ha, explosive tip. He allows himself a brief immature snigger. Anyway, the point is, each trick arrow has slight differences in weight and balance when he lines them up.

When he's collected everything he wants, aligned the nocks and programmed the target distances, he looks down at what he's wearing and scrunches up his face. Worn jeans, Cons, and a jumper. This isn't going to work. If he's gonna do this properly, he should be in his Hawkeye gear. He'd organised to have a couple sets kept down here for that very purpose.

Grabbing his gear from its shelf (praise be to the marvellous machines who keep putting it back after Clint leaves items strewn around the tower and quinjets), he makes for the shower block off the far wall of the floor to change.

He feels confident in his uniform. He's gonna miss it while he's on med-leave, but it's damn good to feel the material against his skin right now. The boots too, their weight adds to that grounded feeling he has when there's something he loves in his hands — he examines the bow. Yep. It's a good one. He runs a thumb along the smooth curve, the metal cool under his calloused fingertip.

He chances a look over his shoulder at Banner — who's watching him.

Oh.

He figured Banner would be focusing on whatever it was he'd brought with him.

Their eyes lock for a moment, but Bruce looks away first, clearing his throat as he opens up the notebook in his lap.

Clint lines up his first arrow, starting with the most basic and noting any adjustments he needs to make. He should say something... Start a conversation...

'Hope you don't mind me saying, but you don't seem happy about this breakthrough, Banner.' He shifts his aim to the right by the smallest of margins.

'No. Well, it's complicated — '

'Ahhh. Bit of a shit word, "complicated," makes a simple problem and solution somehow sound... ' he trails off as he finishes lining up the shot, taking his time to get it right the first time, memorise it, and move on.

' _Complex?_ ' Banner offers.

'Exactly.' The arrow flies true. 'It's fine. You don't have to explain.'

'It's not though,' Bruce snaps. The poor guy sounds frazzled. 'I should ... I want to talk it through, but... '

'But not with me?' Clint distracts himself from feeling jealous by selecting the next arrow, one with a suction cap. 'It's okay. I get it. I'm not Stark.'

Bruce laughs suddenly, 'The last person I want to talk to about this is Tony.'

Alright, that's confused him. 'Yeah?' He looks over his shoulder towards the couch.

Bruce leans his head back against the wall with a dull thump. 'He'd never let me live it down.'

No, okay, that's confused him. 'Let me get this right, this _theory_ , it's not _bad_ news, but you're not happy about it, and you _want_ to talk about it, but not to me because ... I don't know why, and not to Tony because he'd make fun of you?'

'That's it.'

'I thought you said it was complicated!' He grins when Banner gives him an unimpressed glare. 'Alright, alright, I'll just keep going, and if you wanna talk, talk. I'm not Stark, I'm not gonna make fun of you. Unless it's really, _really_ funny of course.'

'I appreciate that, Clint,' Bruce says flatly.

Clint returns his focus to the range.

...

About ten minutes later, Banner softly clears his throat. Clint keeps going with his practice, but splits his attention between that, and waiting for the doctor to speak.

'You've been in this environment longer than I have... ' Banner sounds like he's choosing his words very carefully.

'This environment?'

'SHIELD, The Avengers — '

Clint releases his arrow and sighs, 'Oh I've been doing this a looong time.'

There's a short delay before Banner continues. 'How many people would you consider close?'

'What do you mean?'

'I just ... I mean that it's an unusual life we lead. There's not really a chance to make, well, friends, close relationships, that sort of thing.'

Clint slowly pulls an arrow from the quiver, hearing that familiar sound of metal gliding across metal as he considers Banner's words.

'Yeah, no, I get you. I guess there's only a handful of people I'd call friends. And I live with most of them.' If he's honest, he lives with all but one of them, Phil being that person. Hmm, maybe there's Hill too, she's pretty great when they're not at loggerheads.

'And that's another thing,' Bruce says quickly, apparently jumping on a particular train of thought. 'The proximity. Living here, doing what we do, it's normal, natural to ... to feel, to feel... '

Clint frowns as he slowly twirls the arrow between his fingers.

'Do you think any of us would get along if we didn't live together?' Bruce says.

He'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about that. 'Well, Nat's a no-brainer, but from there, I don't know. Steve would still have a lot to do with SHIELD, so I'd still work with him, but I think it'd be hard to see past the suit. Same with Stark I guess. Don't tell him I said so, but he's not that bad really. You though ... I've thought about it — ' he didn't mean to say that last bit. 'I can't think of any reason our paths would cross off the field.' He turns around to see Bruce watching him. He clears his throat, 'So I guess it's a good thing we're all in this place. Who else would I steal decent coffee from?' And act like a moron with terrible social skills around...

Bruce blinks and reaches for his glasses, only to drop his hand a second later to pull at the collar of his shirt instead.

The feint. Cute. Aw, not cute. He's gotta stop thinking things like that and let it go. 'Why'd you ask?' He keeps his tone casual as he turns back to line up the shot.

There's a sigh. 'It's — '

'Yeah, yeah, it's complicated.'

Complicated. That was the theme in the tower lately, that's for sure. If he could, he'd go back two weeks and ... and ... okay, so he doesn't know what he'd do, but he'd start with getting his damn leg sorted right away so he didn't have to do recovery. He wouldn't kiss Steve. He probably wouldn't suggest they fake this whatever-it-was to mess with Stark, and he would of sat next to Banner when they went out that night to the bar. Sure, it was great chatting with Steve, but Nat was right, he should of just done _something_.

The arrow meets its target with a thud. Banner's right there. Clint should've just done something days ago. Weeks ago. Months ago. He could've handled getting turned down back then, back when he didn't know the guy as well. Yeah, this wasn't anything new, it'd sorta been building bit by bit every time they worked together on the field, every time he overheard Bruce talking animatedly with Tony ... he just ... didn't recognise it for what is was until recently.

Clint hums and gets through four trick arrows before he next speaks. 'Can I run on this leg?'

'No.'

He'd been expecting that answer.

'Where were you planning on running?' Banner continues, a note of curiosity in his voice.

'Just wanted to mix it up,' he points at the simulated range with the end of his bow. 'I can set it so I can stay in one place. Not as fun, but... Maybe next time, yeah?'

'Maybe once I've checked those stitches,' Banner says, stifling a yawn.

* * *

So that's how they pass the day, Clint testing all his trick shots, then moving back to the regular ones just for the fun of it, and Banner reading and scribbling away. He's so quiet — other than the occasion scratching of his pen or rustle of paper — that Clint could almost forget he was there.

...

A few hours in, JARVIS announces that the team's landed in Greenland. A text from Nat confirms it. Shit. There's also three missed calls and an earlier text from her telling him to video call the team. He checks the clock. It's just gone 5pm. The time's flown by.

'What time is it in Greenland?' he calls out to Bruce, lining up one final shot. 'I wanna call Nat, but not if it's the middle of the night.' The arrow meets its target with a satisfying _thwunk_ and he lets the bow swing downwards in his hand. 'Wait, that can't be right, there can't be that much difference in the time zo— Bruce?' Clint's turned around to clarify the time difference, but Banner's dozed off. His head's resting against the crook of his elbow on the armrest, his glasses balancing precariously in his relaxed grip.

'The Amazing Hawkeye wows the crowds again,' Clint mutters with a smirk. He swings the bow across his shoulder and makes his way over. With expert stealth, he takes the glasses and sits them safely on the nearby table. He can forgive the guy — Nat had him peddling all morning, hooked up to monitors. He'd really like to know exactly what she'd been doing. Whatever the outcome had been, she'd clearly been distracted by it for the rest of the morning.

Instead of waking Banner from what's probably some much-needed rest, Clint heads to the showers and takes his time. He changes back into his jeans and Cons, and pulls a clean purple shirt from a locker. He's too hot to put the jumper on again.

Clint's just about finished packing away his gear when Banner wakes.

'They landed safe. Hour ago.' Clint turns to give his full attention to Bruce — who's nodding, but distractedly looking around the couch and patting his pockets.

'Over there,' Clint calls, gesturing to the glasses on the table.

Banner collects them, not before giving him a look of what Clint's gonna call confused gratitude. 'Thanks,' he mumbles, apparently at a loss now he's both awake and standing. 'Ah ... How's the bow?'

'The bow is good. The bow is great. Apparently I need to work on my showmanship though, seeing as it sent you to sleep.'

Banner's face flushes. It's kinda adorable. 'What? No, I was — after this morning, and um, don't think I don't find you, it — '

'Relax, you're off the hook. _This time_. I expect nothing but undivided awe and attention next time though.' Yeah, okay, this session in the range had done him a world of good. He was feeling much more like himself. 'Come on, I'm starving, and we gotta call the team.'

* * *

They connect the video call in the lounge, so Bruce can busy himself in the kitchen reheating pizza (neither of them felt like cooking) while Clint does the talking.

Nat's face pops up first, looking a little flustered — though only Clint would pick it.

'You didn't reply to my texts,' is her steely opening line.

'Hello to you too,' he gives her his biggest smile just to rile her up. 'What time is it there?'

'Twenty past ten. It's only four hours ahead of you where we are right now — '

'But we're going inland tomorrow,' a voice cuts in, the pretty face of Phil's scientist coming into frame a moment later.

'Jemma!' Bruce calls warmly, emerging from the kitchen with a tea-towel slung over one shoulder. It's oddly domestic. He steps up behind the lounge Clint's claimed so he's in the frame. 'Sorry I didn't get a chance to see you before you flew out. How's Leo?'

The agent's face breaks into a wide smile. 'Oh, you know, enjoying the fact it's properly cold outside.'

Bruce chuckles with ease. 'Come round when you get back, both of you.'

With a quick wave between them, Jemma backs away and Nat leans in with a little smirk.

'You're looking better, Doctor Banner.'

Clint's starting to feel a little superfluous...

'Ah... ' Bruce begins, 'yes. I guess. I... '

'Banner's had a breakthrough on the spontaneous hulking,' Clint interrupts.

'Oh?' Nat says cautiously. 'Is it related to this morning's exercise?'

There's a sigh. Clint can practically _hear_ Banner's shoulders slumping even before he glances back to look.

'Yes,' he says weakly, making Clint concerned. 'But it's not that simple.'

'Isn't it?' Nat asks, her brow arching slightly. Clint knows that look, the "why must you insist on overcomplicating things" look. _Hmm_.

'Aw, hang on, how come Nat knows more about this than me? I thought we were friends, Banner!' The tone he's aiming for is light, but judging from Bruce's pained expression, he's woefully off the mark. Ha, archery pun. He'll file that one away for later.

The _ping_ of the microwave sounds. Saved by the bell. Literally.

Bruce disappears back into the kitchen and Clint puts his face in his hands. He peeks out through his fingers to meet Nat's unimpressed gaze.

'This might be a really good time to say something, Clint.'

'Don't,' he mutters, preemptively cutting off a conversation he knows is coming.

Nat looks to her left, nods, then with one last disappointed look at Clint, lets Coulson take over the screen.

'I'm a little surprised, Barton,' says Phil. 'I half expected you to jump on a quinjet and follow us over out of boredom.'

That does sound like something he'd do... 'Yeah, well, maybe I thought I'd try following orders for once.'

Phil scoffs, which Clint finds a little insulting.

'How's Doctor Banner? Anything to report?'

He can see Nat standing in the background. 'He's fine, it's — Yeah, he's okay. I guess.'

'This is why we don't get Clint to write up mission reports,' Nat interjects.

* * *

The video call lasts another fifteen minutes or so, with everyone making an appearance on the screen at some point while Clint and Bruce start eating — the highlight being Steve and Tony bickering over something that must have happened during the flight. Clint does his best not to smirk as he listens to the argument continue off camera once Nat takes over the call again. Ignoring the actual words, it's clear that both men were enjoying riling the other up. They part with plans to check in with the team same time tomorrow, and hang up after one final repeated promise to Stark not to trash his nice tower...

...

'Any plans for tomorrow?' Clint asks, his voice muffled slightly by his very last mouthful of pepperoni pizza. 'Cuzimgoodwifwovver.'

Banner raises an eyebrow.

'I'm good with whatever,' Clint clarifies, once he's swallowed.

There's a long wait for a response, as Bruce sets his half-eaten slice down, pushes the plate away and wipes his hands on a napkin. He sighs. 'I need to go into the chamber tomorrow,' he meets Clint's gaze. 'Logically it's the next step in confirming my theory.'

'This mystery theory you won't share.'

'That's the one.' Bruce rubs at his eyes with the heels of hands. 'Would you be offended if I called it an early night? I think this morning's still catching up with me.'

'Right, yeah, cool.'

* * *

He walks Banner to his door. Hell, he's got nowhere else to be, and Bruce doesn't seem bothered by the company.

It's a quick trip, but for some reason the silence between them feels important in those few minutes.

Bruce stops mid-step as they approach his door, clearly bothered by whatever's on his mind. 'Look, Clint ... I'm sorry I'm not telling you everything about ... what's going on. It's ... I can't. It's not that I don't trust you. Because I do. I do. I've heard how you look out for me on the field, and I appreciate that, so please, believe me, it's just ... it doesn't paint me in a very good light, that's all. And I don't ... I don't want to lose any good opinion you might have of me.'

Clint laughs. 'Good opinion?' That's putting it mildly. 'You make it sound like I look out for you on the field because I have to. _I want to_. I — ' he grimaces, no, no, shouldn't go there... Aw, fuck it, 'I don't just ... have a _good opinion_ of you, Banner. I like you. I — You know ... I meant what I said before. I count you as someone important to me. A friend. That's a big deal for me.'

Bruce smiles a sad smile. Clint would do another week of recovery to know what he was thinking.

'I— thank you. I ... feel the same,' Bruce says softly. 'Which is why I can't give you all the facts — ' he opens his mouth to add something, which Clint hopes in gonna be "right now," because that would mean Banner was planning to explain things _eventually_.

'Goodnight, Clint.'

That's it. That's all he gets.

'Night, Banner.' He knows his voice is a little flat, a little hollow. It's mainly because he's realising Nat was right, tonight might of been a good time to say more.

* * *

Banner's door is ajar when Clint rocks up in the morning. He finds Bruce sitting in his kitchenette, looking grimly resolved.

'What's wrong? What's happened?' Clint asks, his voice a little groggy.

'Hmm? Oh, nothing. No, I was just thinking.'

'I'm scared to ask about what.'

Bruce huffs. 'There's coffee made.' He tilts his head towards the sleek silver and glass press.

The noise Clint makes can only be described as unintelligible gratitude. He hadn't been able to get to sleep until the early hours of the morning — Nat's words, both spoken and implied, had been running circles round his mind.

'You still planning on hitting the chamber today?' He asks after his first gulp.

'You make it sound like I'm going to the gym,' Bruce says flatly. 'But yes. I am.'

'What can I do?'

Banner focuses on him for a moment. 'Honestly? Could you sort out some food? The tests can be run between JARVIS and myself. There's no need for you to wait around. I don't know how long the other guy's going to want to stay for, but I'll probably be drained afterwards, regardless.'

'I can do food,' Clint says brightly. 'If you need me though, just say.'

Banner just nods and looks at his hands which are clenched tight around his knees.

'When do you wanna go?'

'Now. I mean, don't rush. Stay and finish your coffee. I just wanted to check in with you before I started ... I've got everything I need ready to take down.'

Clint sips at his coffee. 'Okay. Well, I'll see you later I guess. Good luck? Is that the right thing to say here?'

Bruce looks very white in the face suddenly.

'Hey...' Clint ignores his doubt and puts his hands on Banner's shoulders. They're tense under his fingers, he can feel the muscles spasm. 'This is a good step, yeah? Testing out a theory? Just — Don't hesitate to call if you need me.' He lets his hands drop back to his sides, but not before briefly putting one hand against the nape of Bruce's neck. It's what Nat does to focus his attention on the field when he's caught in the adrenaline rush. It centres him.

Bruce meets his eye. There are flecks of green there. It should worry him, but it doesn't, because he's distracted by the intent in the look itself. It's ... _familiar_.

'Alright, off you go,' Clint offers unevenly.

Banner blinks and his expression shifts back to grim determination. Without another word, he leaves, grabbing a rucksack by the door on his way out.

Clint rakes a hand through his hair. 'Shit. Shit, shit, shit.'

He cradles the mug in his hands and stares at a tiny crack in the grout between two tiles on the splash-back. He must zone out for a few minutes, because it's JARVIS's voice which snaps him out of his revery.

'Agent Barton, Doctor Banner has made it to the chamber and instructed me to lock it. I'm to contact you if your assistance is required, and can override all locks to allow you access.'

'Got it.'

'On a related subject, sir, the fridge and pantry has just been restocked.'

Clint snorts. 'Is that an unsubtle hint, J?'

'Certainly not, Agent Barton.' There's a slight pause. 'Though, might I suggest a beef curry? It _would_ boost iron levels and has been noted as a particular favourite when previously prepared by yourself.'

He smiles at that. Always nice to hear your cooking has been "noted" as enjoyable. 'Alright, message received.'

* * *

Meanwhile, many floors below, a theory is about to be proved correct. Much to Bruce's frustration.


	11. Trial and Error and Trial Again

**Chapter 11:** **Bruce puts his suspicions to the test, and finally accepts the truth.**

 **And when he does, Clint's right there. Oblivious, but wonderfully, frustratingly, there.**

* * *

 **Special treat to anyone enjoying my fic ... there'll be two updates this week! This one leads straight into chapter 12 (it would have been over 7000 words if I'd left it as one update haha) and I'll post it on Feb 14 ... because that's one of the best way to celebrate Valentine's :)**

 **Thank you to everyone who has read, commented, or favourited. You all make writing this an absolute pleasure! *hands out arrow-shaped chocolates and green-iced gingerbread men***

 **One quick note: just a heads up that this chapter mentions Clint's childhood, as described in the (amazing) Fraction comics. And Banner's too. I've not gone into detail, but thought it would be better to flag it just in case.**

 **Another quick note: good golly, it's hard to write Hulk dialogue!**

 **I hope you enjoy! Please let me know if you do!**

* * *

 **Under Supervised Conditions**

 **Chapter 11 - Trial and Error and Trial Again**

Stepping into the chamber, knowing what he's about to try, is _terrifying_.

'JARVIS? Lock me in.'

The clear door slides across. There's a hydraulic whoosh and thud.

Here goes nothing.

'If he seems to be in distress ... don't contact Agent Barton. Unless... No, don't contact him.'

There were still too many unknowns.

'Understood,' JARVIS confirms. He sounds a little tense.

'If I'm injured — Or ... if something's wrong with me. Me as I am now. _Then_ you can contact him. You have my permission to unlock all doors for Clint in that event. _Only_ in that event.'

'Understood.'

He rolls his shoulders. Stretching won't really help anything, but he feels better for it anyway.

'Doctor Banner, would you like today's session recorded?'

'Yes.'

He'd been about to say no. Usually he only records them when he has to analyse footage with Tony. There's no way that's happening. But he needs to see how the Hulk is acting.

There's a temptation just to make the switch, like he does on a mission. Just ... bring the other guy out.

He wants to try triggering it.

'What do you want me to say?' It feels a little ridiculous, talking aloud to himself as he paces around.

'It's Barton, isn't it?' He catches sight of his own partial reflection in the panels.

'You've got some ... idea... '

There's a hint of something in his chest.

'It's familiarity. That's it. It's not... _That's all it is_.'

His skin prickles. It's all over his body now.

 _Liar._

'Okay... ' That's getting the familiar reaction. Only, he hadn't been reacting _to_ anything then, or...

Think back. The gym. Natasha. Clint. Natasha talking about Clint coping with his injury. He can't do anything to mask the pain... And then Bruce had felt it.

But he'd been around the archer plenty of times lately — and in many of those instances they were alone. He hadn't felt the need to change yesterday.

All right. Another time. When else... The quinjet. He'd watched Clint and Steve together. Steve, who was good, and right, and kind, and so much better in every way —

'Arhh!' A sharp pain comes and goes at the base of his head, like he'd just been struck.

'So that's the trigger, huh? Steve?'

The rolling wave of unsteadiness goes through his frame.

The other guy's not going to take over. But it's like he's waiting, asking to come through. He's impatient, sure, but it's still Bruce's decision. He can feel that distinctly.

Something comes to mind ... Clint saying that the Hulk had been calm until Natasha and Steve had appeared. A bitter laugh escapes him just as he opens up his mind to let him out. ' _You're jealous?_ You are, aren't you. You're fighting a losing battle there. Who's going to want — '

. . .

Oh.

His eyes open wide. He's flat on his back with his arms cast outwards. He probably looks like a star from above.

'How long was that?' His voice is unsteady, but he doesn't feel weak as he stands.

'Eighteen minutes and thirty-four seconds, Doctor Banner.'

That's a ridiculously short outing.

'Shall I play the footage back?'

He runs a hand through his hair and down his chest. He hasn't even broken into a sweat.

'Yeah. Yeah, play it.'

One of the curved, clear panels of the chamber flickers to life, becoming a large screen.

 _'—es.'_

The muscles of his back roll smoothly as he finishes the stretches.

The movement is so familiar to him, but it seems odd to watch himself do it. He looks more filled-out than he feels.

 _'What do you want me to say?'_

Bruce grimaces. Yep, talking to himself was definitely weird.

 _'It's Barton, isn't it.'_

Saying it aloud ... hearing it ... it's...

 _'You've got some ... idea... '_

All right, that's when the sensation had started. The thought brings his attention to just how absent it is now.

 _'It's familiarity. That's it. It's not... That's all it is.'_

 _'Okay... '_

The little image of him on the screen goes silent and still. After a moment, Bruce throws his hands in the air out of frustration as he watches himself. Maybe talking aloud wasn't such a bad idea.

' _Arhh!'_

Bruce startles at his own exclamation.

 _'So that's the trigger, huh? Steve?'_

This is it. This is what he's been waiting for. It's coming. Bruce sits himself down on the floor, keeping his gaze fixed unblinkingly on the screen.

 _'You're jealous? You are, aren't you. You're fighting a losing battle there. Who's going to want — '_

Bruce's frame shifts and reconfigures, his skin changing hues as his muscles expand.

It's not his smoothest transition. But it's nowhere near his worst.

It's...

It's unremarkable.

And there _he_ is.

The Hulk keeps his feet exactly where Bruce's had been. His chest rises and falls slowly. He blinks, pulls both fists through his thick hair, and finally, _finally_ shifts from his spot.

'They were right,' Bruce says, under his breath.

The other guy _is_ unusually calm. Now and then he seems irritated, but never aggressive. What had Clint said last week? That it looked like the Hulk had been beating himself up about something.

That's ... that's exactly what this looks like.

 _'Stupid Banner.'_

The sound of the other guy's voice catches him off-guard.

 _'Stupid, stupid.'_

Bruce lets out a strangled laugh. There's a stinging behind his eyes that he tries to ignore.

The Hulk paces. Now and then he drags his fingers across the curved walls of the chamber as he goes around and around.

Eventually he stops and sits down on the floor with a thud.

 _'Banner. Hawk. Steve, no. No.'_

Despite how it sounds, it's not a tantrum. Bruce watches as the other guy lies down. He checks the time stamp. There's still two minutes to go. But he just stays there, his chest rising and falling, his giant hands clenching and relaxing.

The transition back looks seamless. Painless.

On the screen, Bruce's eyes snap open.

. . .

'Right. JARVIS, I'm going again. Start recording.'

He sighs. 'Okay, this ... this ... I'm going to try and vocalise everything this time, so... so I'm right then. It's Barton.' Bruce wraps his arms around himself. 'What? No reaction to that? Don't go shy on me now, big guy.'

There's nothing.

'All right, so I acknowledge it. Is that ... is that what this was about — oh.' There's a pulling sensation in his chest. 'Banner. _Hawk_.' The sensation intensifies as he repeats Hulk's words. 'Clint. Steve.' It stops.

Bruce huffs out a laugh. 'Don't like that? Too bad. You know what you can do though, I let you out and you just ... go crazy. Just get it out. _Here_. Because we can't do this in the middle of a mission... ' He feels unsteady. 'Yeah, I think you know that already, don't you.' An idea occurs to him, and he approaches the place he knows the camera to be, clearing his throat as he looks down the barrel. 'I want you to watch this. Get it out of your system. You don't get Hawk. I don't get Clint. That's not how it works. You can't just ... make people like you. Even if you want them to. Even if it would make you happy... '

He turns from the camera and stands in the centre of the space.

'JARVIS, keep recording, but I want you to play that section on a loop until it gets a reaction.'

'Understood.'

For the second time today, Bruce clears his mind and —

. . .

Huh...

'How long?' He keeps his eyes closed.

'Six minutes and two seconds, Doctor Banner.'

'That's not possible.'

The recording starts playing. Bruce opens his eyes and walks right up to the screen.

The transition is seamless. The Hulk's attention is immediately caught by the footage playing. It's a strange sense of inception; watching the other guy, watching him.

 _' — then. It's Barton. What? No reaction to that? Don't go shy on me now, big guy.'_

The Hulk tilts his head, his eyes narrow at the image of Bruce on the screen.

 _'All right, so I acknowledge it. Is that ... is that what this was about_ — _oh.'_

Bruce can't believe it. The big guy's actually smirking at the sight of him flinching.

 _'Banner. Hawk. Clint. Steve._ '

The Hulk puts a hand to the screen. _'Tiny Banner.'_

 _'Don't like that? Too bad. You know what you can do though, I let you out and you just ... go crazy. Just get it out. Here. Because we can't do this in the middle of a mission... '_ There's a huff _._ _'Yeah, I think you know that already, don't you.'_ He stares intently at Bruce's face when he gets closer to the camera.

Bruce takes a step back. It's unnerving. He can see a smudge on the panel where the hand had been.

 _'I want you to watch this. Get it out of your system. You don't get Hawk. I don't get Clint. That's not how it works. You can't just ... make people like you. Even if you want them to. Even if it would make you happy... '_

There's no rage. No anger. Just a breathy huff.

The footage plays again. Still, there's no reaction.

After a couple of steps back into the centre of the room, the transition occurs.

The screen flickers away, leaving a clear view of the door through to the recovery room.

He's not ready to call it a day just yet.

' _Come on,_ ' his voice is louder than he expected. 'Here. Now. We're going again until you get — '

. . .

'How — '

'Three minutes, fifty-seven seconds.'

The footage is basically just the other guy waiting. Bruce is angry. Actually, properly, _mad_.

'Do something! Again — '

. . .

'JARVIS?'

'Three minutes, six seconds.'

The footage is more of the same. The Hulk practically looks bored.

Bruce's knuckles connect with the wall.

' _Come on!_ Again! _Again_ — '

. . .

'Two minutes, fifteen seconds.'

'Again — '

. . .

He regains consciousness on the ground, his back propped against the wall, his legs splayed out in front of him.

'JAR— '

'Fifty-two seconds.'

Great, even JARVIS sounds resigned.

'Play it.'

Nothing. He looks frustrated, but other than a shake of his head, all the other guy does is sit down against the wall.

The side of Bruce's left hand hits the wall behind him with a dull thud, sending painful reverberations up through his wrist and forearm.

He stays slumped against the wall as he watches all the footage, right from the first change to where he is now.

Then he watches it _again_.

'JARVIS? End of session. You can stop recording.' His chest is heaving and sweat's cooling on his body. 'No more. No more today.' This fatigue is all his own doing.

'Should I unlock the chamber door?'

He simply nods, then lets his head fall back against the wall.

He'd wanted so badly for this to be about the other guy. That maybe — _simply_ — the Hulk had developed a bond with the archer because of the time they spend together on the field.

It's not that though.

He knows that.

It's even more simple.

Bruce has feelings for Clint.

He absently knocks his head softly against the wall.

The Hulk's just doing what he always does, always _has_ done ... _protecting Bruce from feeling too much_. If Bruce is threatened, he's there. If Bruce is in danger, he's there. When Bruce needs to defend and protect people, he's there.

He must've thought Bruce was in an all new compromising state. He can't bring himself to name it, even if there's a perfect description just waiting there. It's just too big of a word. But the other guy took over because he thought Bruce couldn't handle _feeling_.

And now he's acknowledged it?

Well, he's on his own.

'Doctor Banner?' JARVIS' even tone brings him out of his reverie. 'Your vital signs are all within a normal range, but you appear to be reluctant to move. Are you in distress?'

'I _am_ reluctant to move. But no, no, I'm not in distress.' He focuses his gaze on the red marks on his hands.

Somehow, he knows that's the end of the turns and episodes.

The other guy's achieved what he needed to.

'JARVIS, delete today's footage.'

. . .

He takes a long shower in the recovery room. Longer than his conscience would normally allow. His body feels his own again under his fingers. Like rediscovering something which had been disconnected. It's just as he's considering giving into a mild indulgence that the AI cuts in again.

'Sir, Agent Barton is requesting an update.'

Bruce lets out a shaky laugh as he dips his head into the shower's stream.

'Tell him I'll be up in fifteen.'

'I believe I must clarify my meaning, Doctor. Agent Barton is outside in the hall.'

Bruce turns off the tap and reaches for a towel. 'Ah, okay, right. Tell him I'll meet him in the kitchen.'

There's no reply as Bruce gets dressed.

However, as the door slides open onto the hall, just as he's trying to comb his hair with his fingers, the archer's right there, leaning against the wall and tapping at his phone.

'Oh. Did, ah, did JARVIS pass on — '

'Yeah, no, I was leaving when Coulson messaged. They wanna do a check-in earlier than planned. Figured it'd be easier if we just did it here. That okay?'

Bruce feels a little wrong-footed by the change of plans. He doesn't even know what time it is. There's no natural light in the rooms for his transformations, and he'd been avoiding his phone.

'Uh-huh.' He turns back into the observation area next to the chamber and pulls up a screen for the video call.

. . .

'JARVIS sent me a notification. You used the chamber today?'

They're speaking to Tony, Phil, and Natasha, in the room being shared by the latter two.

'Yeah, I did.' Bruce clears his throat. With a quick look at Barton, Bruce shuffles over to sit in the middle of the frame. 'I want to do at least one more session before I write anything up, but it all went smoothly.'

'How'd it look to you, Clint?' asks Coulson.

'Ah... '

'I went in solo. I had JARVIS ready to notify Clint if I needed assistance. But I, ah... '

'That was probably for the best,' Natasha interrupts, giving him a small nod. 'Given that you didn't know what might be causing the issue.' She's in disguise with shoulder-length mousey hair and brown contact lenses. She looks remarkably unremarkable.

Bruce wonders if his sheer gratefulness is visible through the video call.

'Yes, that was my thinking. Exactly. As I was saying, the transitions went smoothly — '

' _Transitions_ ,' Tony says. Of _course_ he'd pick up on the plural.

'Exactly how many times did you bring the Hulk out today, Doctor Banner?' says Coulson.

Sometimes, when people use his full title, it really bothers him.

'Six.'

He hears Barton curse under his breath next to him.

'Fuck! How are you still awake!' Tony's more vocal, surprise, surprise.

' _As I said_ , it went smoothly.'

Phil crosses his arms. 'Right. Well, I'm sure I speak for everyone here when I say we're pleased to hear that. The fact of the matter is ... that's an _unprecedented_ number of changes in such a short period. As I'm sure you'd know, Doctor Banner.'

Yep, there's the full name again.

'Clint?' Coulson continues. Clint leans into view. 'Clint, I want an overnight watch, understood? He might be feeling fine now, but there's no way of telling if there'll be a delayed reaction.'

Bruce uses the pretence of adjusting his glasses to cover his eye roll.

He's not going to fight it. Frankly, he knows it was irresponsible to change so many times. Even if it made sense at the time.

He stays quiet as the others catch up on what's unfolding on the mission, and simply lets out a sigh when it's over.

'Right,' Barton says, clapping his hands together. 'So I say we treat it as some fucked up sleepover. What'd you want to do after dinner? Movies? Video games? Snacks? Chess?'

Bruce huffs at that last suggestion. He actually wouldn't mind a game, but he's pretty sure Barton's joking. 'Nothing that involves thinking,' he says, surprising himself.

Barton smirks. 'Mindless nineties action movies it is.'

'Actually ... could we go up to the roof?'

'The roof?'

'I know you mentioned it a while back, but if it's a no-go zone, that's fine, I mean, it would just ... it's starting to sink in how much I've been inside lately.'

'No, the roof sounds great. Um, do you wanna grab us some coats and stuff while I get dinner finished?' Clint gives a quick smile. 'J, give Banner access to my room.'

'Understood, Sir.'

They take the lift together in silence. Clint steps out at the communal floor, while Bruce continues up another few to his own.

He hesitates for a moment before his gaze is drawn to the same coat he'd worn out to the bar a couple weeks back. He doesn't bother with a scarf. Instead, he settles for changing into heavier boots and a thicker dress-shirt.

Heading up to Clint's apartment — the highest domestic level — he realises he's never been inside the other man's room.

The suite is orientated slightly differently to his own. It's smaller, but with an immense curved wall of glass wrapping around most of the space. He notices how the bed has the best view in the room. _The nest_ , Stark calls it. Bruce feels the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile.

The sheets and quilt are in slight disarray, the pillows stacked up against the headboard. Maybe he'd been reading this morning.

He steals himself away to the walk-in-robe, and thankfully spots a heavy woollen coat to his left. There's a deep purple scarf tucked into one of the pockets, so he brings that too.

. . .

The smell drifting down the hall as he approaches the kitchen gets his mouth watering.

'Hey!' There's a rush of movement as Clint gets down from where he'd been sitting on the counter and switches the stove off. 'Just in time,' he says with a grin. 'Well,' he turns away and fishes around in the cutlery drawer, 'not really. I had this ready to go hours ago, but it tastes okay warmed up.' He pivots around and lightly lands two deep plates on the counter. 'Sit, eat.' He pulls out one of the stools. 'Or should we eat at the table? You're probably tired. Yeah, let's eat at the table. What was I thinking... ' Clint redirects him to the dining table with a hand splayed against the small of his back.

Theres no trace of the other guy reacting.

Bruce drapes the coats over another chair, sits himself down, and watches as Clint returns to the kitchen, reemerging a minute later with two plates heavily laden with rice and beef curry. Again, he disappears, and reappears with a strangled laugh, placing some glasses and a jug of water down as he slides into his seat across from Bruce.

'I was going to bring wine or beers, but then I thought that was weird. I mean after the day you've had, I'm guessing that would mess with your system?'

'So you brought nothing?' he says, a teasing tone creeping into his weary voice.

'Hey, I made that from scratch!' Clint nods at the food.

'Sorry. It looks delicious.'

There's a snort of laughter from the other man. 'Yeah, J thought you'd enjoy it.' He plops himself down into the seat across from Bruce. ' _Hey,_ ' he says again, slower and with a slightly flustered look.

'Hey,' Bruce replies, bemused. 'Sorry about dinner, I didn't plan on taking so long today.'

Clint shrugs, already digging into his food. 'S'alright,' he says, around a mouthful. 'Might taste more like stew, but I figured it'd be nicer hot than cold, you know.'

As Bruce eats, Barton talks.

'There's more if we want it, but, well, I might've got carried away and made food for tomorrow. I _—_ well, I had a lot of time to kill — not that I'm complaining! Shit, nah, I just thought I'd make use of the time. There's also ice cream. I didn't make that ... It's just there. What'd you reckon they're eating in Greenland? Nat said the hotel's pretty fancy. More like a resort for the rich and corrupt. You see they've split into pairs? Nat, Phil, and FitzSimmons go in undercover tomorrow. Roger's must be losing his mind right now, sharing a room with Stark.'

Bruce listens for a while, but inadvertently tunes out now and then as he chances the occasional look at the archer.

What was it about Clint? What started it?

Sure, he's worked with him for a few years now. They'd lived in the same building for nearly as long. But he didn't _know the guy_. Yes, there was his background. He'd heard about Clint's father and brother. Who had told him about that? It was brutally honest, so surely it wasn't something he'd heard through the grapevine. No, it would've been after some mission, when he'd had down time with Natasha and Clint. Actually, the three of them often ended up together on missions ... waiting around in the quinjets, on the field, or in hotel bars, while Tony and Steve did the PR. It must've been from Clint himself. He'd spoken about the beatings, the temporary deafness, the violence which had followed him into the circus.

The next time they were stuck together — he thinks it was in a cafe at 4am in Europe — Bruce told them about his own father.

Okay, so he knew that. So there must be trust there, for both of them to open up.

He also knew Barton was fiercely loyal. That was obvious.

They had things in common. Some of it might be dark and twisted, but it couldn't be denied. So maybe he _did_ know him —

'Bruce? Did you hear me?'

Clint's frowning at him.

'Sorry, what?' Bruce pauses in the process of pouring out more water.

'I asked what happened to your hand.'

Bruce looks at the blossoming bruise on the side of his hand as his fingers tighten their grip on the water jug.

'I thought you didn't get the other guy's injuries.'

'I don't. I ... I did that.'

'Oh.' Clint shifts the last of his food around the plate with the fork. 'So it didn't go well?'

Bruce thinks about his response. 'He was ... cooperative.'

'Yeah? That's — ' Barton's growing smile falters. 'Are you okay though?'

'I'm... I'm Embarrassed. Annoyed. But I'm perfectly fine.'

'Well that's good, then.' Clint leans back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head.

'Yeah, I guess it is.'

'Roof?' Barton offers. His relief is contagious, and Bruce feels himself relax, matching Clint's smile with his own.

He nods. 'Roof.'


	12. Up Here, Out of the Chaos

**Chapter 12:** **At the top of the tower, looking out into the night sky, the truth comes out. Well ... some of it.**

* * *

 **As promised, another update! Just incase you missed it (because usually I leave ridiculously long breaks between updates), I posted the previous chapter yesterday, and it leads directly into this one.**

 **Thank you to those readers who've left lovely comments on the previous chapters :) I hope you enjoy this one, where our tragic leads let a few truths out, and finally appear to be on track (with a cliche/trope or two thrown in for good measure)... Please let me know if you like it!**

* * *

 **Under Supervised Conditions**

 **Chapter 12 - Up Here, Out of the Chaos**

Bruce follows Clint as they move to the service elevator, along a plain hallway, and out through a heavy print-locked door onto the roof.

'Bit more technical than propping it open with a brick, right?' Clint says lightly as he holds the door open for Bruce. Thankfully, there's enough artificial light to see quite clearly.

Feeling the cold right away, Bruce hands over the coat to the archer.

Clint smiles when he finds the scarf in the pocket, and wraps it around his neck, tucking the ends under his collar.

Bruce is doing up his own coat when he hears Clint chuckle. 'What?'

'Nothing,' Barton says, shaking his head. 'Just, that coat gave me nightmares, is all.'

Bruce looks at him, confused. 'Are my fashion choices that bad?'

That gets a raised eyebrow. Clint shakes his head and reaches around to pull up Bruce's collar, so it covers his neck. 'Come on, there's a good spot round there. Watch your step.'

Clint leads them to a sturdy balustrade, and they lean against it safely, right at the edge of the tower.

The city looks incredible from their vantage point.

He can see why Clint loves it.

The world feels immense and his problems seem insignificant in comparison.

The air is bitingly cold, but even as he shivers, it feels so good to be outside.

'Nothing fresh air can't fix,' Clint jokes, as though reading his mind.

There are plenty of sights and sounds to distract Bruce from the fact they're completely alone. Even JARVIS can't reach them easily.

'It's crazy, right?' Clint says, looking out at the city lights. 'Sometimes I think it'd be sweet to go somewhere greener, you know?' He leans forward to rest his weight on his forearms against the railing. 'I've got that place in Waverly. Be a hell of a job to fix it up though. The retirement plan I guess, if I'm lucky.'

Bruce shifts to look at the other man.

'But then of course, there's nights like this,' Clint continues, his tone lifting. 'When the city's right under you and we can be up here. Can't get that from a two-storey homestead.' Clint's face breaks out into a wide grin and he chuckles. 'Shit, I was almost gonna say it's like bein' on top of the world, and then I heard the words in my head and thought, _this isn't Titanic_.'

Bruce smiles out at the skyline.

'You got plans, Banner?' Clint rubs his hands together for warmth.

Bruce ducks his head down to shelter from the icy breeze. 'I like the sound of moving somewhere quiet again.'

' _Well_ , you're welcome to stay with me. You can make a little garden if you like.' Clint looks at him with a crooked smile. 'Start a coffee farm.'

He tries to stare him down, but cracks up. 'Doesn't sound half bad.'

Fuck, why was it so easy to talk to him? A part of him is thrilled. And then ... there's his conscience.

'Listen,' Clint says, clearing his throat. 'Don't let Phil get to you.'

'He didn't — '

'Don't. Don't pretend. I get it.' Clint slides across to bump a shoulder into Bruce's side. 'Not knowing what's going on in your own head ... well, it's the fucking worst.' He doesn't look angry or distressed, just resigned.

'I have a theory about the changes,' Bruce says quietly, surprising himself. 'Well, _had_ a theory. Safe to say I was right.'

Barton straightens, looking Bruce right in the eye. 'Great! That's great, right?'

He shifts on the spot, 'Ah... '

Clint frowns. 'I know you didn't want to talk about this with me, I get that it's complicated, but, you're not... There's nothing — fuck, I don't know what I mean.' He looks at him imploringly. ' _Are you okay?_ '

Bruce kicks his heel against the rough concrete surface with a bitter laugh. 'I'm fine, I've been an idiot, but I'm fine.' When he sees the archer still watching him, he sighs. ' _Really_. It's... ' He shakes his head. How had he not seen it sooner. It was so simple. There were ... _ways_ ... ways he could of worked it out of his system. He grips the handrail tightly. 'Turns out it wasn't so complicated after all. See, it was all to do with compartmentalising.'

Clint's gaze lingers for a moment. 'Well, I gotta be honest Banner, you're kinda the king of that.' He turns and leans his back against the railing, his left shoulder nearly touching Bruce's. 'I mean, no one else has a separate _body_ for their anger _._ '

'Yeah ... I don't know if that's really the best thing.' He lets out a low sigh, 'It's also why I should've seen it earlier. I don't _repress_ the anger or rage, that's the thing, I acknowledge it. That's how I can control the other guy.'

Barton's nodding along. His focus drifts and he bites at his bottom lip. 'I sure know all about that,' Clint says eventually with a sad smile. 'Repressing emotion,' he clarifies, glancing back at Bruce, who has to break the eye contact to manage the flush he feels crawling up from his chest to his neck. 'Look, I know I have no right to ask, but... '

Bruce stubs his toe into the concrete and closes his eyes to the view for a second.

'Only, I feel like I've been havin' this conversation a lot lately,' Clint continues, either ignorant of Bruce's hesitation, or choosing to ignore it. 'Steve... ' he starts quietly. He turns to lean his left side against the railing, so he's facing Bruce. 'Can I tell you something? I mean, something that can't reach Stark's ears?'

Bruce _has_ to look at him now. He's intrigued. He gives a small nod.

'Steve kissed me.'

'I know.'

Barton looks confused for a second, 'No, I mean I told you and Stark that, but he actually did.'

' _I know_ ,' Bruce repeats with a weak smile. 'I saw.'

Barton's eyes widen.

'Yeah, sorry. I just ... didn't mean to. I was in the kitchen.' Bruce offers a shrug with one shoulder. He feels kind of bad that he'd known Clint's big secret already, but, at the same time, well, it was nice to have the other man confide in him at least.

The archer's head falls forward as he stares at his boots. Bruce notices the way a nerve on the man's jaw seems to twitch.

'Steve ... Steve has some issues to resolve with Tony,' Barton says slowly.

Bruce scoffs, 'Don't we all?'

Barton huffs a laugh, but gives a small shake of his head. 'I mean he's got feelings for him.' He glances up to meet Bruce's eyes. 'Look, I don't know if he's in love with the guy or ... he reckons not, but I think he's tryin' to kid himself.' He says all of this in a rush, looking down again right away.

They're both quiet for a little while. Bruce becomes aware that he'd shifted to lean on his side while Barton was talking, so that they're now face-to-face and just a couple feet apart.

Clint clears his throat and lifts his chin. 'That kiss you saw? That wasn't really meant for me, I just happened to be there.' His blue eyes seem dark as they focus on Bruce.

Bruce open his mouth to speak, only to promptly shut it again as he processes that information, scanning Clint's expression for any sign that he's upset about what he just said. He wants to know — Well, he's not sure what he wants to know.

'You kissed him back. That's the part I saw.' Fuck. Why'd he say that of all things.

'Yeah, well, that wasn't done for the right reasons either.'

Bruce picks up on the resigned tone in the archer's voice. 'But why the act? If Steve likes Tony, why is he — '

'With me?' Clint's fingers tap idly against the metal railing. 'He's not. There's nothing in it. We wanted to show Tony he's, I dunno, that he's an option, that all those jokes about being some pure, old fashioned, virgin are messed up.'

Something about the way Clint says "pure" sends a jolt down through Bruce's body. 'He's not then?' His voice comes out low. He's not sure he wants the answer.

Clint laughs, 'I honestly don't know. But he wants Stark to see he's willing and able — Wait, that doesn't sound right... But it doesn't matter. He's got Pepper. If we thought there was any chance he — '

Bruce shakes his head, running a hand though his hair until it rests against his neck.

Clint picks up on the unexpected gesture. 'What?'

'Tony and Pepper haven't been together for a long time, at least not like that.'

Clint stares at him.

'They're close, _amazingly close_ , but it just ... didn't work.'

'But everyone _knows_ they're a couple. Tony and Pepper. That's just... '

Bruce offers a quick half smile. 'It was convenient for the media to just ... assume.'

'Fuck.' Clint looks like he can't decide whether to be happy or annoyed. 'Steve needs to know. He's going to be ... _fuck_ , I don't know what he'll be... ' he looks to Bruce like _he'll_ know how Steve will react. 'Between you and me, what are the chances?' Clint blinks slowly like he's said the wrong thing. 'What are the chances Stark's interested in the Cap? I'm happy to tell Steve we gotta quit this show, but I don't wanna get his hopes up.' He sighs. 'Look, there's no way I can ask this without sounding stupid, but is Steve even his type?'

'His type?'

'I can't tell if you're being like this deliberately... ' he groans. 'Does Tony _only_ like women?'

'Oh! Oh, no. No, he ... likes what he likes,' Bruce chuckles. 'And he usually gets it.'

Clint shuffles on the spot awkwardly. 'Sounds like you've got some personal experience there, Banner.'

'Ha! No, god no.' His cheeks are reddening. 'He _did_ kiss me once. I fell asleep during one of his precious movie nights. I think Pepper dared him. Or he was drunk. Probably both.' Bruce tries to shake the memory from his mind.

'Nothing else?'

Bruce tilts his head to the side with a frown. Surely he's imagining Barton's bothered tone. Surely...

'Just intrigued, is all.'

...Because if he's not ... if he's not, then that's ... that's _something_. 'We're not each other's type — '

Clint seems to be analysing the choice of words.

'Tony... He's always had an interest in Steve. I used to think it was because of Howard, but... ' Bruce trails off, feeling conflicted. 'The antagonising, there's more to it. It's like the kid in school who would pull your hair because they liked you.'

Clint smirks. 'Okay, just ... forget about me for a minute. If I wasn't a factor here, do you think Tony could be interested? Yes or no?'

Bruce crosses his arms, unintentionally brushing against Clint. ' _Yes_. It might take him a while to realise,' he shakes his head, _gee, doesn't that sound familiar_. 'It might take him a while to realise,' he repeats lowly. 'Steve would have to make the first move. Tony won't do something he thinks will seriously damage the team. If he does like Steve, he won't — '

'But there's _nothing_.' There's a wildness in Clint's eyes. ' _It was a joke_. Just a joke. I know that, Steve knows that — '

'But _Tony_ doesn't. I didn't.' Bruce turns away from Clint's quick curious glance. 'Tony might be willing to do a lot of shitty things, but he's not going to steal Rogers away from you and risk the team.' He's completely aware that he's talking about himself and his own situation as he reasons aloud...

'He's not risking the team. He's welcome to him. They can go have their weird power-struggle super-sex on the kitchen counter for all I care, hell, I'd consider bringing popcorn.'

Bruce shakes that image from his mind. 'Tony doesn't know that though.'

Clint bites at his bottom lip as he considers the point.

'Does Natasha know?'

'Yeah, she knew something wasn't right about it. Been on my case about it this whole time.'

Bruce sighs. 'She's right, we really _are_ all idiots.'

'She's a sensible one, that Nat.'

'She is.'

There's a distinct beat in their conversation, Bruce feels the mood shift.

'Sounds like she's been on your case too.'

'Something like that.' Bruce moves against the railing, finding it difficult to look at the other man. 'What are you going to do? Will you tell Steve about Pepper?' His tone is tentative, his voice faint to his own ears as the wind whips around them.

There's a rustle as Clint pulls his coat tight around himself and steps closer to hear him better. That wasn't Bruce's intention, to get him in closer, so he bites the bullet and angles himself back towards Clint. There's less than a foot separating them.

'I gotta talk to Steve then,' Clint mutters. 'What time is it there?'

'You want to tell him _now_?'

'Why not? No point fucking around when there's two people out there who could be happy, right?' Clint looks down at the view beneath them.

'I don't know, you're talking to the King of repression and compartmentalising, remember?' Bruce watches the twitch of Clint's features as he breaks into a big grin.

'Right, yeah, no, I'm with you on that.'

Bruce starts to laugh. It's bitter, but it's hearty and it's honest, and he feels a tear in the corner of one eye.

'What?' Clint asks.

'Nothing. I'm just tired. It's nothing.'

Clint reaches for Bruce's waist, giving him a playful tug.

Bruce stops laughing as his breath hitches, which he _knows_ the archer hasn't missed.

Clint looks at him quickly, the smile still playing on his lips, and after the briefest of pauses, which somehow, _somehow_ , seems frighteningly significant, he pushes away from the railing and heads for the door back inside. 'We should go in.'

He gestures over his shoulder for Bruce to follow. 'You with me, Banner?'

Bruce feels the pulse under his skin as he follows a few steps behind. The sensation doesn't frighten him in the same way that it used to.

. . .

The mood shifts slightly as they head inside, the reality of their sleeping arrangements suddenly presenting a problem.

'Where are we crashing tonight? Yours, mine, or the lounge?'

Even though the lounge sounds like the safest options for the sake of his sanity if nothing else, he needs a more comfortable place to rest his head —

Clint makes a buzzer sound. 'Time's up, Banner. My place it is.'

Bruce feels his face warm as they step into the lift. 'Are you sure?'

'You kidding? Home advantage.'

Bruce turns away to hide the flush which is surely creeping up his neck to his cheeks.

'I want a hot shower. I don't think I can feel all my extremities,' Clint adds lightly. 'And asking to use your shower seems kinda weird.'

'Weirder than me staying over?' Bruce chances a look at him.

Clint turns away to look at the ceiling. 'No comment,' he mumbles.

It's not quite as uncomfortable as he'd feared, though that's probably because Clint keeps busy as soon as they step foot in his suite by searching for some clothes to lend him for the night.

Bruce lingers by the lounge in the front room, idly moving cushions around.

'Aw, Bruce, what're you doing?' Clint reemerges from the bedroom with a folded bundle under one arm.

'Just — '

'I'm not letting you sleep on the couch. Fuck's sake, pick a side of the bed,' Clint laughs, 'I don't bite.'

Bruce hesitates, but follows him back into the other room.

'These should fit,' the other man continues, handing over a pair of grey sweats and a dark purple henley. Once his hands are free, he shucks off his coat and holds out a hand for Bruce's too.

While Clint deals with the coats, Bruce moves around to the side of the bed furthest from the bathroom door and places his glasses on the cabinet.

Clint's holding his phone when he returns, tapping at the case distractedly.

 _Right._ The call.

'Maybe you should wait,' Bruce hears himself say. 'With Steve, I mean. Only ... that sort of news ... hearing that the ah, that the possibility at least ... the possibility at least _is there_... Well that's a lot of news to take in. Especially at night.' Bruce toys with his shirt cuff. 'You said he was sharing a room with Tony? That might make things awkward.'

'Yeah.' Clint twists the phone around between his fingers. 'Yeah, I guess it could be kinda awkward.'

Bruce hums. Oh, he knows _exactly_ how awkward it could be. He's living it. 'Call him in the morning.'

The archer nods. 'I'm gonna take that shower.'

Alone, Bruce strips down and pulls on the henley and sweatpants. The top's a bit loose on him, but the fabric is nice on his skin. As he sits on the bed, he's grateful for Tony's love of oversized furniture. The bed is a king, possibly bigger, and if he keeps to the very edge of his side, there'll be plenty of space between them. Once he's lying down, he's pleased to realise just how tired he is. You can't feel uncomfortable if you're asleep, right? Even as he's drifting off to the sound of the water streaming in the next room, he fights his natural habit of sleeping on his back, and faces the window instead.

If he weren't so tired, this would be a very long, very awkward night.

The bed shifting under him rouses Bruce fifteen minutes later. He hears a quiet apology from Clint as the other man gets into bed.

'S'alright, go back to sleep.'

Bruce rolls himself back onto his side. Clearly that plan had failed as soon as he'd drifted off then... His looks out at the view, the lights of the city are blurred at the edges as his weary eyes fail to focus.

The silence stretches out. They're both awake, and they both know it.

'It's weird, I've never looked forward to a break-up before,' Clint says, fighting back a yawn.

'I'm very happy for you,' Bruce replies, his voice heavy and slow with fatigue.

'Yeah?' Clint shifts lightly on the bed, presumably onto his front, judging by the muffled sound of his voice. 'Good.'

Even though he's falling back into his deep rest quickly, he can't stop the question escaping his lips, 'Good?'

It's quiet for a moment, and Bruce finally lets his eyes close.

'Yeah, good.'


	13. Cards on the Table

**Chapter 13: Relieved about ending the sham with Steve, Clint lets his thoughts wander a bit further than usual. He's testing the waters with Banner ... laying certain cards on the table ... 'Cause the thing is, it seems like, maybe, Bruce is looking at him differently, and if that's true, he's gotta get this right.**

 **Picks up after the end of the previous chapter, from Barton's PoV.**

* * *

 **Thank you for the lovely response to the last two updates! I really enjoy reading the positive comments! x**

 **I hope you enjoy this chapter ... it's, well, it's tough to write the clichés without seeming clichéd, so I hope I've done a decent job. Prepare for passing references to a couple of nineties rom-coms (Four Weddings and a Funeral, and You've Got Mail).**

 **And, as much as I love the trope of X and Y waking up to realise they've curled around each other in their sleep, leading to confessions and romance ... I had to make things difficult and go in a different direction. Well, at first, anyway. I do love a good trope, after all :P**

 **There's going to be a delay in posting for a little while - my schedule's gotten ridiculous and I hate it :/ Queue google searches for amusing motivational quotes haha**

 **Anyway, happy reading!**

* * *

 **Under Supervised Conditions**

 **Chapter 13 - Cards on the Table**

- _Ping_ -

Agh. Clint's trained himself to wake up at that alert. It's different to a personal text, so he knows missing it will probably have consequences... He rolls out of bed, grabs his phone, registers the sound of heavy rain outside, and makes a beeline for the kitchen, already reading the message as he reaches blindly for the kettle switch.

He falters as the words register.

 _Chamber has been placed off-limits unless in the event of an emergency. Agent Barton is to maintain watch on Dr Bruce Banner until evaluation and clearance can be undertaken by approved —_

'Fuck that,' he hisses. Wait, why's he being quiet?

Oh.

 _Right._

 _Banner_.

Well that gets rid of the problem he'd been fretting over last night — the whole situation of waking up next to Bruce and the frightening possibility that he may've latched onto the doctor in his sleep, or….

Thank goodness for small mercies.

Clint backtracks to his closet to put track pants on over his purple boxers and pulls on a white t-shirt for good measure.

He risks a proper look at the sleeping man as he heads back to the kitchenette.

Banner's on his back, his head angled away towards the window. One arm's hooked under his pillow, the other loosely fisted in the sheets in the middle of the bed. Clint drags his gaze across the sight and turns away before it gets creepy.

That damn message on the phone... Clint paces around the lounge in the front room, too worked up to do anything else. It didn't sound like Phil's wording. He'd probably had someone put it through the official SHIELD bullshit filter.

He was planning on calling Steve, but with every passing minute he's getting more annoyed, so he selects Nat's number instead.

'You free to talk?'

'No Clint, we're in the middle of the job, I picked up because I wanted to hear your voice,' she says flatly.

'Cute.'

'Why are you so quiet? Where's Bruce?'

'Asleep.' He steps backwards to double-check around the doorway. He hears Nat's little noise down the line. 'Don't,' he warns. 'You know about this hold on him going in the chamber?'

'I — '

'First they want him figuring it out, so they lock him in here, and now he's done exactly what they fucking wanted, he can't prove it? What'd they want him to do?'

' _Clint_. We're coming back early. Saturday afternoon. Coulson and I met with a lead last night after we spoke to you — '

'I thought you weren't meeting anyone till today?'

'No, the plan was to bring FitzSimmons in today if we were compromised.' Her pause seems significant. 'It didn't go to plan, but it's fine now.' _Fine_ usually means something happened.

'Are you hurt?'

'We're handing over to a Danish team once the intel's confirmed and we turn the place over.' Nat ignores his question, which is to be expected. 'Phil's staying behind to oversee things.'

'Wait, so what happens with clearing Bruce?'

'Tony says — '

Clint hears the bathroom door close. Bruce is up, then.

'Is Steve there?' He asks, running his free hand through his hair.

' _Really?_ '

'Nat, no, it's not... I'm putting an end to it, okay. Happy?'

' _Yes_.' She replies. 'Why?'

'I need a reason now? You've been pushing me to do this and now I gotta — Oh, hey... Morning.'

Banner's leaning in the doorway to the bedroom. He reaches under the collar of his shirt to scratch absently at his collarbone before stepping through to the room.

'Say hello from me.' The warmth in Nat's tone is concerning.

Clint sighs. 'Nat says hi.'

Bruce goes pale. He quickly turns towards the pantry, away from Clint.

'Let me guess, he looks worried.'

'Yeah... How'd you know?'

'Are you going to talk to him?'

'I talk to — ' he glances over at Banner, who's just opened the coffee tin. Aww, the _empty_ coffee tin. 'There's ... There's a dialogue.'

'I swear Clint, if I were there — '

'Yeah, I know, but you're not, so just ... let the options be explored, okay.'

Bruce is looking at him, an eyebrow raised. He gestures to the empty tin, then at the front door. 'I'll be back in a minute,' he says quietly before heading out of the suite.

'Steve there?'

There's some background noise as the phone gets passed over.

'Hey Clint, how are you?' Steve starts brightly. 'Natasha's watching me like a hawk,' he adds with a laugh.

'Yeah, don't worry about that. I gotta tell you something.'

'Okay?'

'Aw, now I don't even know how to say it, I had it all planned. Fuck. Sorry — '

'Clint, it's fine, what is it?' There's the sound of a door closing.

He groans. 'He's not with Pepper. Tony. Not for years.'

There's silence.

'There um, there's also a chance he might be, like, receptive, if you wanted to ... I dunno, if you wanted to think it over.'

'Oh.'

'I know you said you weren't sure how you felt... But, I reckon you should say there wasn't anything going on with us, I mean, I don't know how you can just casually drop it into the conversation, like, _hey, just ignore that whole thing because I think I'm sorta in love with you_ — '

'I wouldn't go that far — '

'Right, yeah, no... ' Clint runs a hand through his hair. It's probably sticking up in twenty different directions.

'Clint?'

'Nat there?' he asks quietly.

'Hang on.' There's a muffled conversation. 'I'll see you soon, Clint. And, um, thanks for passing that on.'

The phone rustles and the next thing he hears is a low whistle from Nat.

'I take it you're a free man,' she says cooly. 'Don't look at me like that, Rogers, you didn't convince me for a second. Go back to the others.' There a slight delay as Nat waits for Steve to leave. 'Well, he doesn't look heartbroken.'

Clint scoffs. At the same time, Bruce opens the door and looks in to check if Clint's still on the phone. Clint waves him in and spies the small canister he's carrying. It's the fancy coffee.

'Oh my god, I love you.' The words escape before he has a chance to be embarrassed, which gets a twisted expression from Bruce and silence from Nat. The words seem to take a long time to register in his own ears. He flashes a grin at Bruce and chuckles into the phone, 'Once again, my life has been saved by caffeine.'

Bruce starts the process of making coffee again, and Clint escapes back to his bedroom.

'How was last night,' Nat asks. He can tell she's not looking to torment him, she's genuinely curious.

He nudges the end of the bed with his knee. 'Easy,' he says. It was true. It felt effortless. Right up until the point he had to sleep next to him and pretend like his heart wasn't racing a mile a minute like some giddy teenager.

'I have to go,' she says reluctantly. 'I don't know what the next twenty-four hours will be like, but message me if you need to, okay?'

'Uh-huh.'

'Well, I'm officially a single.' Clint laughs as he rounds the corner, pocketing his phone — Bruce startles and something falls on the counter with a clang.

'Sorry,' Banner mumbles, 'it was by the sink.' He picks the object up again — one of Clint's hand strength trainers — and idly tries to squeeze it. It barely moves.

Clint laughs affectionately, taking it from him to use properly. He feels the strain on his forearm.

'I got the message about the chamber being locked,' Bruce says with a grimace.

Clint goes to apologise, but Bruce shakes his head and turns away.

'There's nothing to eat here,' he says, passing a mug over to Clint. 'Downstairs?'

They take a minute to pull on their boots, then take their full coffee mugs into the lift.

Clint sniggers. Bruce looks at him questioningly.

'Just thinking 'bout how we got the whole tower to ourselves and the craziest thing we do is wander around having breakfast in our pyjamas.'

Bruce hums, 'We really know how to cut loose.'

The lift doors open onto the hall of the communal floor. 'You know, when Stark said to look after his tower, I think he overestimated our degree of recklessness.'

'What was he expecting? That's what I'd like to know.'

Clint shrugs as they round the corner into the kitchen. He takes one of the stools at the bench and slumps over his coffee while Bruce looks in the fridge.

He starts pulling out ingredients from around the place with one hand while he continues to sip from his mug.

It becomes clear that he's making french toast. Clint presses his hands against his stomach to try and stop it rumbling.

The plate that's put in front of him fifteen minutes later smells fucking amazing.

'Look at you,' he croons.

Bruce seems embarrassed. He looks at the set-up on table like it's only just appeared and has somehow offended him. 'I got a bit carried away... '

'What, no. You kidding? This is great. Is this just the everyday Banner catering experience, or 'cause've recent events?' He raises an eyebrow.

'Recent events?'

He scoffs dramatically. 'My painful split from America's dreamboat. You know, that thing that happen like, half an hour ago.'

They eat in relative quiet, but Clint catches the strange looks that cross Banner's expression.

'Look, you're pulling some faces here I just can't work out. Either you've got food poisoning, in which case, should I be worried? Or — ' Bruce glares at him, unimpressed. 'Aww, see, that I recognise. So, I don't have to stop eating then?' He holds the last piece of toast up to his mouth and waits.

Bruce leans back, distracted by something in the next room. He moves his arms behind him. Clint can't tell if Banner's gripped onto his own hands or the stool, but whatever he's doing makes the front of his shirt go taught against his chest, the lower neckline pulling across his olive skin and smattering of dark hair.

Purple looks _good_ against his skin.

 _He_ wears a lot of purple.

Therefore...

His eyes track over every fold of fabric, every seam and stitch, every line of lean muscle exposed against the tight material.

 _He'd_ look good against him.

 _Ugh, brain, why are you so corny_. He's pretty sure if he tried flirting with actual words, he'd sound like a shitty e-card.

'I seriously can't get used to _casual Banner,_ ' he says, dragging his finger through the crumbs on his plate and popping it in his mouth to lick them off. He drops his hand back into his lap just as Bruce turns to face him.

Bruce shifts in his chair awkwardly as his gaze meets Clint's.

Okay. He can't help it. He's gotta try something. Clint grips the edge of the bench and slides his hands out, away from him, knowing _exactly_ what the movement will do to the muscles and tendons in his arms as he stretches.

Yup, Banner's gaze follows the action. However, his expression is curiously blank.

It's a little disappointing. Clint lets out a short breathy sigh as he brings his hands back to drum against the counter impatiently. 'It's Thursday, right?'

'Yes?'

He hums. Taking the plates over to the sink, he can't help but think it feels like the weekend — 'Oh! You still checking my stitches tomorrow?'

Bruce blinks quickly. 'Ah... '

'I mean, you don't have to — '

'No, no it's fine.' Bruce frowns at Clint's leg.

'What?' He heads back for the mugs, feeling Banner's gaze on him the entire time.

'You've stopped favouring the other leg,' Bruce remarks, sounding surprised. 'I know you were trying to mask it, but... '

'Yeah, no, I think it's all going pretty good. You wanna check it now?'

'How about we do it on Saturday, that way someone can sign off on both our progress.'

* * *

They've been down in the range for a couple hours so Clint can keep to a routine.

He's concerned Banner's going to get bored, but he seems perfectly content examining the tech that controls the field simulator. At one point, Clint goes to call out that he'll wrap it up soon, only to see Bruce making notes on the back of a yellow take-out flyer while he examines a compound bow.

Clint's packed, cleaned up, and changed ... and still, Bruce is lost in his own bubble.

'I should have asked,' Bruce says, snapping Clint out of his own observation. 'I've been gentle with it. I know I don't like Tony fiddling around with my lab…. '

'It's fine, fiddle away.' Clint shakes his head. 'I mean, I trust you, it's fine.'

Bruce gives another of those unreadable looks and then … then nothing.

They make their way up to Banner's lab, and the roles reverse, Bruce working away while Clint wanders around. After a while he asks if he can move the chair with the throw Stark had left behind. Initially confused, Bruce steps in to help carry it over to the window so it won't scratch the floor.

The view outside isn't too interesting, obscured by the sheets of rain blowing against the glass. But it gives him something to look at that isn't Bruce in his purple shirt, glasses, and scruffy hair.

It's getting a little ridiculous, just how often he finds his gaze drawn to the other man. If he's honest, he's been feeling a little punch-drunk since they stepped onto the roof. Something about the way he'd felt Banner's breath catch when he'd touched him had sent his mind spinning. He'd go over that instant again and again, and worse, he wanted to _experience_ it again, just to be certain. Because he's _sure_ there was something in it.

But for now….

'It's still raining,' he says absently.

'I hadn't noticed.' There's a hint of humour in Banner's tone, and when Clint's brain finally catches up and he realises he's walked into a classic rom-com quote, the laughter comes thick and fast. Bruce hasn't looked up from what he's doing, but he's clearly biting back a smile.

'I know what we're doing after this, Banner,' he says when he calms down. 'We're commiserating my painful break-up with movies, food, and alcohol. We can even throw shade at Rogers and Stark.' He leaves the chair to lean against the counter.

'Throw shade?' Bruce mutters, 'who says that.'

Clint shrugs. 'Not me. Well, not again. I'll make us a list, pass me something to write with.' He hold a hand out, making a grabbing motion. 'Please?'

He works on that list for far longer than necessary, trying to narrow it down to three or four films, fully aware they probably won't make it through them all. Bruce keeps quiet at first, but then he mentions _You've Got Mail_ , and Clint adds it to the final list without question, along with a muttered 'F – O – X.'

* * *

Clint leaves Bruce in charge of reheating the lasagna he'd made yesterday while he'd been killing time, and sets about turning the lounge into the ultimate … Well, pity party. He'll just ignore that he's smiling as he drags cushions and throws around to his favourite couch.

It's only when he steps back to program the TV that he realises he's clearly set the space up for them to share the one couch... That wouldn't normally be weird — they often share it — it's just very _obvious_.

Oh well.

He deliberately keeps his distance to see how Bruce reacts when he brings dinner through … and thankfully the other man just looks bemused rather than uncomfortable.

They get through their food and a bottle of wine during the first film, passing the hour and a half with light hearted jokes at the terrible plot … even though they both fall silent in the dramatic parts.

The deep couch works to their advantage in the end, with Bruce sitting cross-legged and angled into his corner, and Clint laying on his back with his legs hooked over the armrest. It's a nice coincidence that whenever he needs to twist himself upright to drink his wine, he has to put a hand on Banner's leg as leverage.

And when he lays back down after putting on _You've Got Mail,_ he's shuffled up enough that his head just barely rests on the other man's leg.

'Do you think the sound of old computers haunts Tony's dreams?'

Bruce chuckles. 'Quite possibly.'

'Reckon we could ask J to make that sound when Stark wants something?'

Now Bruce is properly laughing. Which makes Clint's face break into a wide smile. It also means Banner shifts, and Clint's head falls an inch, and he gives a small squeak in surprise.

But the best thing … the best thing is that Bruce notices, and even as they're both chuckling, Bruce is settling into a different angle and helping Clint get his head back onto is leg. Only, Bruce has slumped down, so it's more like his waist now.

He can feel the cotton of the purple Henley against the back of his neck.

The wine is doing a good job of balancing out his giddiness at being so close. But … the bottle empties eventually. He doesn't want to move. Ever.

Though, when he sees Banner toying with his empty glass in his peripheral vision, he reluctantly gets up. 'Well, we finished that quick,' he jokes, making his way to the kitchen. 'Same again?' he calls. Not waiting for an answer, he finds another bottle of red. 'Ice cream?' He hears a clear _yes_ from the other room as Bruce stands and excuses himself to the bathroom.

It's a balancing act, but he gets back to the lounge with the bottle and two tubs and spoons without dropping anything.

He pauses the film and decides it's a great idea to pile all the wine bottles and food together on the coffee table in front of the TV and take a picture. He captions it "I'm taking the split hard" and sends it to Steve while he kneels on a cushion on the floor.

'What'd I miss?' Bruce asks when he returns, sitting back into his corner with the tub Clint's left him.

Clint likes how he sounds when he's relaxed. A little less proper.

'Nothing,' he groans, pulling himself up from the floor to sit shoulder to shoulder with Banner and hitting play.

Bruce sighs during a scene in the little bookshop. Clint feels it before he hears it. 'I hate that this could never be made now, you know. Nothing's like that anymore.'

Clint hums.

'So, is it working like you hoped?' Bruce says absently. 'With the movies and everything?'

Clint smiles and shifts to look at him, 'Yeah, I — What're you doing?'

Bruce follows his confused look down to his lap, where his hands are wrapped around the ice cream container. 'I like it when the sides start to melt.'

Clint raises an eyebrow but mirrors Banner's technique. 'You know, I think it's done the trick.' He gives a crooked smile.

They're well into film number two, and _also_ well into vino bottle numero dous, when Clint decides to get philosophical … frankly, he's surprised it's taken this long.

'What'd you think Steve sees in Tony?'

Bruce frowns, then gives him a slightly glassy-eyed look that says "does it make you jealous?"

Clint answers the silent question, 'No. I'm serious, what'd you think it is? You know Stark better than the rest of us. Well, Nat knows him pretty well, but not in the same way…. ' Clint scoots back a bit so he can face Bruce.

Banner puts his glass down and angles towards Clint. Now it definitely feels philosophical. Or does he mean psychological?

'I think Steve sees past the suit. He's … he's had to play a part for a long time. His suit, his mask, the shield, he's part of history. And I think … I think that's a lot to live up to. So maybe he understands the difference between Tony and Iron Man better than any of us could. I don't think we even _see_ a difference. Just like how we think Steve and Captain America are the same person. They're not.'

'Aww, that's … I like how you put that. Kinda poetic.' He bites at the inside of his cheek. He wants to know how Banner would describe _him_.

'What's — ' Bruce cuts himself off with a shake of his head.

'What's what?' Clint says, leaning sideways into the head feels very, very heavy.

'No, no, it's nothing.' He's embarrassed. It's cute.

'Nah, c'mon, what?' He pushes against Banner's knee with his knuckles.

Bruce relents with a pained expression, 'I was just wondering what it was like to kiss Captain America. But I realise that's…. ' he tilts his head from side to side. 'Odd.'

'Well, first off, I thought we just said they were two different people.' Clint places his glass on the coffee table. 'But … saying that … he's like an old movie. That makes sense, right?'

Bruce raises an eyebrow.

'Like in the old movies, where they hold the girl's face to cover what they're doing even though it's all very … decent. You know, like... ' Aw, fuck it. He cups his hands around Banner's face. He's smiling lazily, but watching intently to check he's not freaking Bruce out. 'Wasn't anything special 'bout it.'

Bruce huffs a laugh. 'Really?' His voice is soft but coarse.

Clint shrugs. 'It just didn't feel real.' His grip relaxes, and his hands shift lightly but unevenly down Bruce's face. He can't bring himself to look him in the eye, so he stares at his own fingers dragging lightly along Bruce's jaw. He feels a twitch under his fingers.

' _Clint_ — '

The volume jumps as a song starts playing in the film.

He drops his hand back into his lap. With a weak laugh, he meets Banner's gaze.

'Why? Would you call Tony's memorable?' he teases.

Bruce chokes on a laugh and leans into the back rest. In the light from the screen, he can't tell if the other man is as flushed as he is.

Only … as much as he wants to just close in on the small distance between them and kiss him, he's frustratingly aware that he wants to do this sober. He wants to be completely clear headed, completely aware and able to remember _every single detail_. Because now he knows how the line of Banner's jaw feels, he knows he wants more. He wants run his fingers across that collarbone, to ghost over the slight dip of those hip bones he's only ever seen briefly. Then there's the way his shoulders roll when he stretches … he'd run he's hands across —

'Clint?' Banner's watching him.

'Wine,' he stammers. Yup. He definitely needs to wait for a clear head. Which is not going to be tonight … So, until then, there's no reason he can't fetch them another bottle. He's meant to be commiserating after all, right? Or celebrating? One of the two.

'Sorry?' Bruce tilts his head.

'Aw, just … I'll…. ' he stands, feeling absolutely lost.

Bruce clears his throat and stands too, 'I'll go — '

'What, no, don't go, I mean I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or — '

'I meant I'll go get the wine. Just … ah, I don't … You didn't. It's fine, I can…. ' he sighs, and manoeuvres around a very confused Clint to get to the kitchen.

Clint falls back to his corner of the lounge. The space feels very empty.

Pretty soon though, he's back to leaning against Banner's side when he returns.

. . .

He's surprised they've stayed awake to make it to the third film, the one that had given him the idea in the first place. He's _mildly concerned_ that they've made such a dent in the third bottle. It's only as he's yawning into Banner's shoulder that he remembers how sad this movie gets.

Bruce yawns too. 'Should probably bed … go to … to — ' another yawn. 'Go to bed,' he finishes, but even as he speaks, he's shuffling down further into the cushions, taking a completely relaxed Clint down with him.

'Beds are for losers and sober people,' he mumbles, reaching for his pocket. 'Where's my phone? Take my phone away … I don't wanna risk texting anyone. That's, like, rule one of being the pity party buddy, keeping me from texting Tasha or Banner or — '

'Me? I'm here.'

'Yup, you are … I meant — Just take my phone away.' He finds his phone, and holds it up for Bruce, who has to get his arm around Clint's shoulder to reach it. He feels Bruce try to move, so he settles down further against his human cushion.

'Do you want me to put this somewhere? Because you have to let me move.'

Clint blindly grabs the phone again and tosses it over the back of the couch. He doesn't hear it shatter so that's a plus.

He's pretty sure they carry on some sort of conversation after that, but the words are forgotten as soon as they leave his mouth.

 _Oh no_. It's the funeral scene. And the fucking poem. And he's gone quiet and is blinking hard and Bruce is quiet and….

'I always forget how sad this bit is,' Bruce mutters.

Clint leans in closer and reaches over with the intention of giving some comforting gesture. The best he can do from this angle is fist his hand around the soft cotton of Banner's shirt.

They stay that way right up to the line about the rain. Not that Clint realises, of course. He's fast asleep by then.


	14. Roadblocks and Loose Threads

**Thank you so much to everyone who's read, subscribed, or commented while I've been away! (sorry about the delay between chapters again) I hope you enjoy the update, and any positive feedback/comments are welcome (and always enjoyed :D )**

* * *

 **Under Supervised Conditions**

 **Chapter 14 - Roadblocks and Loose Threads**

It's Friday.

That's the first logical thought Clint has.

Their last day together before the others come back to the tower.

That puts a little knot in his gut.

Stark will presumably take over the stupid supervision thing, if it continues at all, that is. There's a chance Banner will get the all-clear tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, pretty soon for sure. And Clint's happy for him. Fuck, he's _so_ pleased for him. And yet … he needs to make it clear that he wants to keep … agh, keep building on whatever "this" is starting to be.

Coffee. He smells coffee.

That's the second logical thought.

He opens one eye. He sort of knew he'd find himself alone on the couch, but the fact he can hear Bruce close-by is good enough.

. . .

Clint's still waking himself up as he watches Bruce fuss over something in the kitchen sink.

'Hey,' Clint leans into the doorway with his shoulder, though he slides a bit off-balance and ends up turning at the last minute to get his back to it. He catches the little amused look that crosses Banner's features as he dishes yogurt out into his bowl. 'So, clearly I'm not firing on all, um... '

'Cylinders?' Bruce offers, before frowning down at his shirt, where he's just spilt something on it.

'Yup. Them.'

Bruce gives a small smile and nods towards the fresh pot of coffee as he lifts the bottom of the shirt to get the stain with wet paper towel.

The sight of Banner's olive skin and hip bones catch Clint off-guard, and the breathless words are leaving his mouth before he stops to think, 'Geez, warn a guy before you do something like that.'

Bruce hesitates, and pulls the shirt back down.

'Aww, don't get shy on my account, we've dragged you off the field in a lot less.' He throws the line away flippantly as he pours out a cup of coffee, but when he glances at Bruce, there's a flush to his cheeks, and a look that clearly says _don't tease me_.

He lets it go quiet and focuses on the wonders of caffeine. Meanwhile, Bruce is worrying over the hem of the shirt.

Fuck it, he's running out of time to dance around this _thing_.

'Bruce?' he doesn't really wait to get a response. 'Do you think you're not attractive?'

Bruce stares at him in complete confusion.

'Do you?'

'I'm not having this conversation with you.' He wraps his arms around himself.

Clint grins. 'Yes, you are.' He shuts up for a while, sipping at his coffee and watching over the rim of his mug as a faint blush creeps up the other man's neck.

Bruce does a good act of finding the counter-top fascinating while he eats.

'Even your frown is adorable,' he teases.

Banner's eyes narrow, but he doesn't look up. _'Adorable_ ,' he mutters dryly. 'That goes a long way in a place like this.'

Bruce leaves the room … and it takes a moment for Clint to register he's not intending to come back. He hastily drains the dregs of his cup and follows Banner out to the hall.

'Where're you going?'

Bruce is at the lift.

'Hey... ' he calls, keeping his tone light.

'I'm putting your shirt in the wash and getting changed, Clint. I'm not _running_ _off_.'

'Well wait for me.'

'I told you I know how to stop it,' Bruce says thinly as he waits for the doors to open, misunderstanding Clint's desire to go with him.

The lift doors _still_ haven't opened. JARVIS is waiting for Clint to make a call on whether to let the other man go off on his own.

'Yeah? Cause you're sounding a bit pissed off,' he jokes, regretting the words immediately.

Bruce's wounded look is like a bullet in his gut.

Clint steps back and waves him off, like a surrender, which also triggers the lift doors to open. That seems to add to the insult, and Clint mentally kicks himself for how bad Bruce must feel right now.

Before he can think twice, he's going back to the lounge to grab his phone, and texting Nat in a mad rush, not really looking at the words he's typing.

 **10: 04am CB to NR**

Ithink Ive fked up

 **10:04am CB to NR**

I dont just like th guy ,Ithinkits mre

There's no reply. He takes the time to compose himself.

 **10:19am CB to NR**

I'm guessing you can work out what that was meant to say.

 **10:20am CB to NR**

But you already knew, right?

Clint gets in the lift and makes his way down to the range. He _could_ go up to Banner's floor, but that would look … well, that would look like he didn't trust the guy.

'J, send Banner down to the range when — No, just, just tell him I'm in the range. So ... yeah, that's where I'll be.' He opens his compact bow with a quick movement. 'And, um, there's no need to let anyone know that Doctor Banner's unsupervised, okay?'

'Understood.'

'Just … just tell him to have the day to himself if he wants or whatever. Maybe make it sound better than that though, yeah?'

There's a brief pause.

'Doctor Banner has been notified.'

Clint folds his bow up again, at a loss for anything else to do. 'How did he seem?'

JARVIS seems to consider the question. 'The Doctor will be okay with some time.'

Great. That's _kind of_ reassuring.

. . .

Clint tries to just go about his day...

He warms up.

He programs the range and keeps himself busy there for a while.

He considers doing a light course in the field simulator. Bruce _had_ said it might be fine by now … but … he'd rather wait to check. Shit, when has he ever waited for that type of thing.

And yet, he waits.

He gets some food from the kitchen.

He contemplates going up to Banner's floor.

He goes back to the range instead to run an inventory of his specialised arrows.

 _That's_ how bored he is.

When the inventory is completed, he starts on cleaning his gear. Not that it's grubby or anything, just … it's something to do with his hands.

Clint hears the doors slide open, but he keeps his eyes on the work in front of him, holding up a metal arrow to the light and slowly moving it to look for any imperfections that might send it off-course.

'Ah,' Bruce clears his throat. 'About earlier, I might've, um... '

'Taken a stain on a borrowed shirt too seriously?' he offers, glancing over his shoulder. Something about the other man makes him do a double take, but he can't put his finger on it.

'I was going to say overreacted — '

'No, fuck that, I know it wasn't about the shirt.' Clint's still trying to figure it out. Flustered. Yeah, that might be the word to describe the doctor.

'No, no.' Bruce sighs. 'Some things just... Sorry — '

'Don't apologise for letting this get to you.' Clint puts down the arrow he'd been cleaning a little too forcefully, causing the whole tray to rattle. Well, if it wasn't damaged before, there's a chance it is now. 'Damn, sorry — ha! See, now _I'm_ apologising. It's contagious. Look, I can finish up if you want to do something today, I really don't mind, I mean I dragged you through my little pity party yesterday — which was actually pretty fun really, and I mean sure, I've been more relaxed these last days than — not that'd you'd know from the way I'm talking right now and I should probably just shut up, but you know, actually, I'm wondering, because you seemed to be so bothered by it this morning, and I mean, there's been other times I've picked up on it, but this, this sorta stood out. I guess … I guess I'm wondering, seriously, do you ... not realise you're … nice to look at?'

Nice to look at? Aw, mouth. He chances a proper look at Bruce.

If anything, the guy looks amused. Baffled, embarrassed, but definitely a little amused.

'Look, you want me to list off all the other words I'd use?' Clint challenges.

Bruce shifts on the spot like he's not sure if he wants to stay or go.

'Because I will,' he continues, stepping away from his work and towards Banner. 'There's the glasses — '

Bruce drops his gaze to the floor and pockets his glasses in an easy movement.

Clint laughs. 'Oh, well now you've done that, guess I've run out things to say.'

The other man glances up at him with a sadly vindicated look. Shy but challenging, fuck, it's got to be Clint's new favourite look on the guy.

He goes in for the kill. 'Oh wait, fuck, _now I remember_ ,' he starts sarcastically as he approaches Bruce, the words forming in his head perhaps influenced by all the movies last night. 'You're _ridiculously_ clever. And even when you _know_ you're the smartest person in the room, you don't throw that in anyone's face. You _listen_. It's fucking gorgeous that you're so shy, but at the same time I want to shake you for being so blind to the way people gravitate towards you.' _The way I gravitate towards you_ , he adds in his mind. 'You're so used to helping other people I think the idea of someone wanting to put you first scares the shit out of you — '

'Clint. _Please_.' Bruce tilts his head to one side. 'Don't do this.'

 _'Why?'_

Bruce shakes his head, bites at his lip. 'It's too much, I … please, _don't_.' His eyes are dark and deep, and say something different.

But Clint listens to what's being said aloud.

'Fine.' His gaze darts back and forth from Banner's dark eyes to his worried lip. 'Fine.'

* * *

The remainder of the day passes in a haze of forced normalcy.

Sometime during a dinner Clint doesn't remember the taste of, they stumble into an agreement that Bruce can sleep on his own tonight, though both men seem hesitant on making the final call.

Bruce eventually says goodnight and leaves Clint in the kitchen, alone with his damned thoughts.

* * *

Clint checks his phone while he gets ready for bed, after exhausting a dozen ways of delaying sleep, too jittery to settle. There's a message from Nat. He'd missed it when it came through.

 **8:03pm NR to CB**

I think you passed that point a long time ago.

He can hear her in his head as he reads. She's quiet and calm and just what he needs.

 **11:19pm CB to NR**

But it feels new.

He's so glad Nat will tolerate his tragic rambling.

 **11:21pm NR to CB**

Because you didn't know he felt the same before now.

He wasn't expecting the quick reply. He has to reread it a few times.

 **11:22pm NR to CB**

Clearly you're not with him right now, or you wouldn't be messaging me.

 **11:22pm NR to CB**

Why aren't you with him.

Clint laughs at the fact that it's not even a question, rather, an accusation. He starts to type a reply...

An excuse.

And then he deletes it.

'J, is Bruce awake?'

Clint straightens his clothes and runs his fingers through his hair.

'Doctor Banner is still up, yes,' JARVIS replies.

Something catches his eye; the coffee Bruce had brought over yesterday.

. . .

Clint knocks on his door just before midnight.

Bruce looks surprisingly alert, but still dishevelled, with his hair mussed up and dress pants crumpled. He's also shirtless, which, well...

Clint wasn't expecting that … and after this morning's shitty attempt at a joke, he decides to stay quiet about the sight.

'Um … so, you left this at mine,' he holds up the coffee.

Bruce frowns at the bag, and tilts his head with bemused intrigue. 'Were you concerned I'd go looking for it in the middle of the night?'

'Yes?' He toys with the packaging. 'Can I come in?'

Banner steps aside.

He puts the coffee on the kitchenette counter and wanders further into the space.

'I couldn't settle after today,' he admits, sitting at the end of the bed. There's a small light on, and a blank-covered notebook resting on the charcoal-coloured quilt. 'Shit, you were working — '

'No, no... ' Bruce smiles as he settles back against the headboard. He props the book against his chest and angles the title page to Clint. _Persuasion_. 'I just think JARVIS will have something to say if he knew,' he adds conspiratorially.

Clint smiles and shakes his head. He's still feeling restless, and not quite confident enough to voice what he wants to say, so he takes a walk around the room, ending up at a bookshelf. There's a mix of records and cassettes featuring some familiar artists, along with some he's not even going to try and pronounce. There a substantial classical section too. Not Clint's area, but he's still impressed. There's a cluster of paperbacks stacked by a rock — it's probably more than a rock, but, again, not his area. Like the music, there's a range of genres. He has a chuckle at some of the trashier titles, holding one up for comment. Bruce is watching, and shrugs a shoulder.

It's funny how everyone's made their apartments distinct over the years. This room, with the wood floor and textures and muted colours and collections, it couldn't belong to anyone other than Bruce. It really feels like this is home for them right now. He knows there are plans to move out of the city one day to a new facility, but for now, this is home.

'Would you stay here tonight,' Banner's voice seems to drift across the room. It feels warm when it reaches him.

Another question that's not a question. He's still facing away from Bruce, but he nods.

He wanders back and falls lazily on to the bed and puts his hands over his face, happy to stay like that until he falls asleep.

'Are you feeling any better?' Bruce asks.

'Yeah.' He hears a page turn over.

'Should I turn the light off?' Bruce asks.

Clint shakes his head. He rolls onto his side to face the other man, sliding his hands under the pillow as he watches Bruce read.

After spending a long time on the same page, Bruce sighs and folds the corner over, closes the book and rests it on his chest.

'Why won't you let me say those things to you?' Clint asks quietly, his eyes fixed on a shadow in the quilt caught under Bruce.

'I've done something incredibly stupid, Clint.' His voice is low and full of guilt.

'I don't care.'

Bruce sighs and takes off his glasses. 'You will.'

Clint breathes out slowly, biting back any retort.

Bruce shuffles down and hooks an arm around the pillow. It takes Clint a moment to realise why this gets his attention. 'The bruising's almost gone,' he says, a little surprised even though he _knows_ the guy heals quicker. He moves his hand enough to run the side of his little finger along the fading marks.

Banner doesn't flinch away, but he does turn to look at him with dark, sad eyes in the dim light.

'It's not right that I can do this to myself and have it disappear in a few days, and you have to carry that injury just for looking out for me.'

'I could tell you were changing back. If that wall had fallen on you — '

'And if it had fallen on _you_? Or if the other guy had lashed out? I'm not worth that risk, Clint.'

Even though he likes the way his surname sounds in the guy's voice, it feels significant when he uses his first name. 'He wouldn't hurt me. Besides, he can't catch me, I'm too quick.' He offers up a lazy smile. It's true that he knows to avoid the Hulk at certain times, but the two of them have worked together plenty.

Bruce doesn't look any less concerned. 'Not quick enough,' he mutters, glancing down at Clint's leg.

Clint pushes his hand under the pillow and over Bruce's palm to give what he hopes is a reassuring squeeze. 'And you are worth the risk.'

Still, Bruce doesn't move away, so Clint decides to hold on until he does.

* * *

Their hands are still connected when he wakes to a dull, grey morning.

Unlike the other time, there's nothing to pull him out of bed, and he finally gets to appreciate the experience of waking up next to Bruce Banner.

It's not as problematic as he feared.

If anything, it's sad, because there's no reason for him to be here again once the others are back. Except that maybe there is.

The room is still comfortably warm. Evidently neither of them tried to get under the quilt. Though maybe the heat is coming from Bruce himself.

His gaze trails along Banner's light olive skin and lean muscle. He follows the dark hair as it covers his chest and tapers down to the waistband of his pants. Clint's hand unconsciously grips firmer around Bruce's. His eyes flick upwards to watch the rise and fall of his chest.

It's easy to tell when Bruce wakes. The rhythm of his breathing changes, and his hand twitches under Clint's. The contact doesn't seem to throw him, but there's a wary look in his eyes as he angles his face to Clint.

Clint gives a crooked smile, and gently pulls Bruce's hand into view. 'Look, completely gone.' He traces over the skin where the bruising was and raises an eyebrow. 'How bout the other one?'

Bruce studies his other hand for a second, and yep, that one looks just fine. 'Ego's still sore,' he mumbles, a hint of humour in his voice.

Clint beams and flops over onto his back. If he happens to have manoeuvred closer to the other man so that they're now shoulder to shoulder … well that's definitely a coincidence.

It's a little concerning really, Clint thinks, just how easy it is to be still in the silence with Bruce. It's something he can only manage with a couple of other people. Okay, maybe just one other. Nat.

He chances a look across the pillow to Bruce, who's already looking at him. Oh. He doesn't look away, but his studying expression is hard to read.

'What?' Clint asks, content.

Bruce frowns. 'I'm not sure I'm ready for everyone to come back.'

'Yeah,' Clint says. 'I get that.'

'I thought,' Bruce rubs a hand over his jaw, 'I thought it would be difficult.'

'What, you're saying those tests in the chamber were a walk in the park?' Clint's keeping his tone light, because there's some instinct telling him to stay on this topic, like there's an important thread to pull there if he knows where to look for it.

'That was a different kind of difficult.' Bruce says absently.

'Yeah?' He waits, counting out the seconds he ought to pause. 'What was the other kind?'

Bruce grimaces. 'This.' He keeps his eyes fixed on Clint.

'This?' Clint repeats back, feeling a shiver of nervousness rush over his skin. 'What? Me?'

Bruce just frowns and turns his gaze towards the ceiling.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

There's the thread. Pull. _Pull_.

'I think … I think we gotta talk. Properly.' Clint says cautiously, watching the way Bruce locks his jaw. 'Everyone's gonna be here soon, and it's like you said … I don't think I'm ready for them to be back either.'

'Why?' Banner's voice is strained. Clint's not entirely sure which part of what he's said the other man's referring to... '

'When I said all that yesterday, that was … that wasn't me messing with you. You know that, right? I – '

Aw, words. Why is he so shit at getting the right ones out.

'I should check your leg's healing,' Bruce says out of the blue. The firmness in his voice at odds with what's come before.

'Huh?'

The mattress shifts, and suddenly, Bruce is standing. He seems unsure what to do with his hands, whether to fold his arms across his chest or reach for a shirt … eventually he settles for putting his glasses on. 'I pushed it back a day already, I should – ah... ' He notices the way Clint's looking at him.

Like he's hungry.

Clint's not sure if it's because it's the morning and his body's willing to speak for itself, or if it's the sight of Bruce rumpled, with the low-riding pants, bare chest, and glasses, wearing him down.

'Fine,' Clint says. He lifts his hips and reaches for the waistband of his sweats, intending to pull them down just enough to get to the spot where his thigh's healing –

'Jesus, not here, Clint!' Banner's voice is amusingly high and panicked.

Clint lets his hips fall back against the mattress. 'What difference does it make?' His eyes track Banner's fingers as he does up the buttons of his shirt. It's a light purple one he recognises.

Bruce looks at him. 'Just... ' His gaze darts from Clint to the empty space on the bed and back again.

 _Interesting_.

'Not _here_.' His eyes linger on Clint for just a moment too long … well, long enough for heat to pool in Clint's belly to the point he has to sit up on the bed. 'I'll meet you in the med bay,' Bruce continues, tucking the tails of his shirt into his waistband.

'Can I use your shower first?'

Bruce nods once, shuts his eyes for a second, and nods again. 'I'll ... I'll be downstairs when you're ready.'

Once he's gone, Clint puts his hands over his face, unsure of what to make of the way his side feels cold and exposed without Bruce next to him, and a thought going through his mind on repeat; _there's the thread, pull it, pull it._

 _There's the thread._


	15. Step Forward, Step Back

**Thank you so much to everyone who's read, subscribed, or commented! I hope you enjoy the update, and any positive feedback/comments are welcome (and always enjoyed :D )**

* * *

 **Under Supervised Conditions**

 **Chapter 15 - Step Forward, Step Back**

Bruce enters the tower's med-bay … and smiles.

He'd passed the point of confidently lying to himself. Clint wasn't just "being nice." He wasn't humouring him.

Three nights. He'd spent three nights next to the archer. Two of the most paranoid members on the team had allowed themselves to be vulnerable … and he'd been okay with that.

Bruce takes a deep breath, and starts on preparing the room for the check-up.

Waking up in Clint's bed the other morning, even though he was alone, hadn't been strange.

Looking at the other man started to feel like something he didn't need to hide. He got to notice even more, like the way Clint moved with such fluidity even while he was stumbling over his words.

Yesterday … yesterday had been a wobble. He'd panicked. It'd been too much … hearing Clint say those things about him. He'd replayed Barton's garbled compliments in his mind so many times after he'd left the kitchen that they became warped and foreign, the weight of the words changed, and so did the meaning, until they became taunting and teasing. They weren't even in Clint's voice anymore. That's when he had to slow down and, well, recalibrate.

He adjusts the chair Barton will use so it's at the right height, and locks the backrest into a slight recline to make it as comfortable as possible.

He'd sat on his bed and thought back through the last few days, focusing on everything non-verbal. It was more difficult to rewrite those memories … and soon enough he'd thought of something that made him smile; the weight of Clint leaning on him as they'd watched the films. He couldn't ruin that. And there'd been the way he'd traced his fingers across his jaw, or held onto his hand as they slept.

He smiles as he drags a stool over to the chair.

Clint was a very tactile person. He'd noticed that before in the way he communicated with Natasha. Bruce had been the same way, a long time ago. He hadn't realised just how touch-starved he'd been until recently.

He's still smiling, almost to the point where he feels a sting behind his eyes, when JARVIS announces Clint's on his way.

Bruce isn't sure if he's managed to make himself look calm and collected by the time Barton arrives, but judging by the archer's smile when he enters the room, he's guessing not.

Clint hesitates in the doorway, looking at the set-up with warily. He's dressed in worn jeans and a dark grey sweater, his hair still damp and sticking out at odd angles. 'Don't know why we couldn't do this upstairs. Up there, down here, what's the difference. We're still the only ones in the tower.'

'Professionalism?' he offers lightly.

Clint huffs. 'You're always saying you're not that kind of doctor.'

Bruce sighs. 'This needs to be by the book…. ' he looks over at Clint and shrugs.

'Let's get this over with,' Clint grumbles, kicking off his shoes. 'But just so you know, it could've been so much more fun if we'd stayed upstairs.' Oh great, so the flirtation isn't over for the day. Clint's smirking as he pulls his jeans off and lifts himself up onto the edge of the chair.

'There's nothing fun about antiseptic gel and tweezers.' He glances at Clint, relieved to see the man looks put off by the idea.

Clint scoots back in the chair. 'I mean … a lab coat wouldn't be so bad…. '

'I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that,' Bruce hangs his head at the sound of Clint's snickering. He sits on the stool and rolls himself into a good position. The tactic of ignoring Clint proves to be a good one as he manoeuvres between his parted knees to lean over the stitches.

He removes the breathable dressing, relieved to find that everything looks fine. 'You've been looking after this,' he says.

'Uh-huh,' Clint responds, as if it had been a question. 'Think there's any chance they'll cut the R'n'R short seeing as it's healing fine?'

'I think they already gave you a good deal with four weeks,' Bruce mutters, checking there are no fibres caught in the stitches before he applies a gel. 'If it helps,' he says slowly, 'I know you're hating this.'

'Hasn't been so bad, the company's made it – '

Bruce hears Clint's breath catch as his thumb ghosts over the skin just below the stitches. 'It's sensitive?' he asks, looking up over the rim of his glasses as his thumb drifts down slightly, away from the inflamed skin and over the faded bruises.

'Sorry, s'fine, keep going.' Clint worries his bottom lip.

Bruce studies him, waiting for a definite sign he should continue. When Clint leans back in the chair, Bruce angles closer. He's increasingly aware of his other hand, which is curled around and under Clint's thigh. He's got to apply pressure to gently pull the skin taught around the stitches.

He's trying not to think about it … the warmth emanating from them both. The thought of what every little shift of his grip is doing against such a sensitive area of Clint's body. He's trying fiercely to ignore it.

'You'll be able to get out of the tower once Tony's back,' Bruce says. 'That's something, right?'

Clint shrugs. 'Depends how long I gotta wait till you're cleared to come out too.'

'You don't have to wait for me.' He glances up quickly and doesn't know how to process the completely unguarded way Clint is looking at him.

This needs to be professional. Clinical. Only … he doesn't remember it feeling this way when he'd had to help at the med-bay last time. That had felt clinical. This … hell, Clint was right, he's not that type of doctor. He suddenly releases his grip on Clint entirely, his hands hovering just millimetres from his skin, still able to feel the radiating heat.

Clint unthinkingly slides himself forward on the seat towards the absent touch. Bruce registers the movement, and puts his hands back down to still him, his grip now inadvertently just that little bit higher up on Clint's thigh.

Bruce realises what's happened and any words of apology he plans get caught in his throat as his gaze drags from where his hands still rest, up to Clint.

He wants to meet his eye, to say something to break the tension, but he can't look past his mouth –

Clint's biting down on his lip, a line of white under his teeth. He unconsciously runs the tip of his tongue over the softening indentation he's made when he eventually goes to speak.

'Hey,' Clint's voice is shaky.

Bruce flicks his gaze up to Barton's deep blue eyes. 'Hi.' His hands haven't moved.

'So, um.… ' Clint scrunches up his features. 'Aw, hell. This really isn't how I imagined this conversation going, but … I've been … wanting … to do something – well, to say something first, because I mean the doing really oughta come after the saying I think anyway, that is if the saying even goes right, cuz I dunno, maybe it won't – '

'Clint,' he interrupts, trying to focus the other man.

Clint sucks in a deep breath, and on the exhale, gets the words out evenly. 'I like you. A lot. Sort of more… well, a lot. And I can't keep pretending like I don't need to hear it from you, so … do you? Feel anything along those lines, I mean?'

'You think I don't?'

'Logically, I reckon it's not just me. And then, I guess, I ... I convince myself I fucked things up because of the whole Steve … thing.'

Bruce closes his eyes and hangs his head. How the hell is he meant to say that's more his problem than it is Clint's? That even though there's no blame or fault there, the hiccough it's caused isn't down to the archer. The whole idea of explaining it makes him feel ill. It's got to happen one day, but … not now … not when he has a shot at being happy now.

His fingers tentatively graze across Clint's skin as he brings his hands down to hook behind the man's knees. He uses the leverage to stand up. It's like he knows he's standing, but nothing has any weight.

The blue eyes watching him are dark and dilated. The scientist in him can explain that away immediately, but still, touching Clint like this suddenly feels like a very dangerous thing to do. But he doesn't lift a finger.

'This mean you're finally ready to talk about things?' Clint says lowly, enough humour lacing his voice to make Bruce huff. His fingers hook around Bruce's belt loops.

'I'm sorry.' He's not sure why he has to keep saying it, but he can't stop.

'What the hell are you apologising for,' Clint shakes his head and pulls.

Bruce falls in with the motion, now standing between Clint's legs, unsure what to do next.

'Please?' Clint says quietly, sliding his hands up and under the hem of Bruce's shirt.

He feels the coarseness of the archer's fingers as they drag across his hipbones. Every movement is tentative. Cautious.

He feels just a little off kilter, swaying on the spot as he shuts his eyes for a moment.

Clint's hand moves around to the small of his back, steadying him, and oh – Bruce's breath catches – which seems to set Clint off, making some guttural sound. It's just a little moan, but….

He has to open his eyes when he hears that. The fact he can get that noise out of Clint is…. He's never seen this look on Barton; heavy lidded, face pale and flushed all at once, eyes so dark as they track every little movement.

Bruce releases his hold on Clint, who immediately tightens his grip like he's expecting Bruce to pull away … so the look of surprise when Bruce reaches one hand behind himself to place it over Clint's, effectively locking them in place as he steps in even closer, is priceless.

As Clint shuffles to sit right at the edge of the chair, Bruce wonders what to do with his other hand – mainly to distract himself from the fact that their hips are just about flush – but it soon finds a place, fisted in the soft yarn of Clint's sweater.

Clint looks like he's about to speak – and that's when Bruce decides to cut him off.

The first kiss isn't over-the-top, but it isn't exactly chaste either. It's … testing, more like their lips meeting, open, cutting off another word that might delay them further. They're simply caught in the moment, not exactly deepening the kiss, but slowly catching the other's lips as they pull apart.

'I guess that clarifies things,' Clint says huskily, not moving away much at all and leaning in to press his lips against Bruce's as if checking it's still okay.

Bruce just hums as he moves his hand against Clint's jaw and the side of his neck. His other hand shifts to drag up the archer's arm until he's toying with the hem of his long sleeve. He angles his face to brush a kiss against the other side of Barton's jaw – it's odd, because he can smell his own soap on Clint's skin. There's a strange familiarity even in something so unknown. He finds a spot just under Clint's ear and grazes a lazy kiss against the sensitive skin –

'Fuck,' Clint gasps, swallowing hard. Bruce feels every movement under his fingertips. 'I wasn't expecting that,' he continues. Bruce repeats the kiss with a smirk, as Clint reaches a hand up to pull him back to his mouth.

There's something deliciously frantic in the way Clint's kissing him, it's slow and patient too, sure, but there's an intensity there which takes them both by surprise … like they're both now fully aware they could've been doing this for the last few days and nights.

Clint's hands are moving across his back and hips in a maddeningly testing way, but when he goes to stand up, at the same time as he nips at Bruce's lower lip, the combined friction drags a noise from Bruce that stills Clint enough to lean back and look at him.

Bruce wants to laugh, but it sounds like a huff, and he sees Barton's flushed face and the heavy rise and fall of his chest. Clint's watching intently.

'Your eyes,' he says vaguely. Though before Bruce can worry, Clint smiles reassuringly. 'This is … this is right.' He stands properly, not taking his eyes off Bruce now he knows the reaction it elicits, and slowing every movement of his hands on Bruce's back – now more confident – to tease out another response. 'Bruce – '

'Sirs,' JARVIS interrupts, almost hesitantly. 'I should inform you that the quinjet is five minutes away from the tower.'

Both men pause. 'Right,' Clint sighs, 'of course it is.'

'Mr Stark has expressed a desire to find you directly, Doctor,' the AI continues. 'I estimate it will take them ten minutes to reach your current location.' There's something in the cool tone...

'J, are you…. ' Clint begins –

'Annoyed?' Bruce finishes, smiling at the feel of the archer's fingers drawing across his back as he pulls them out from under his shirt.

There's a beat before JARVIS answers. 'The timing of the events seems ... regretful.'

Great. Even the AI's got an opinion. 'Hear that? We have terrible timing,' Bruce says, dragging his thumb down the other man's jaw.

Clint pulls back with a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. 'Speak for yourself, Banner, I have excellent timing. That's basically half of my job.' He sits back down on the chair. 'Timing, accuracy, and patience. That's the job. That's me,' he releases a shaky breath as he looks at Bruce.

'That's three things. They can't all be half of your job,' Bruce says with a grin, stepping away reluctantly to tuck his shirt back into his waistband.

'Maybe I'm just extra good.' Clint glances over to a clock, hops down from the chair, and reaches for his pants.

'That sounds about right,' Bruce says. He's trying to even out his breathing, but he finds himself grinning. 'I need a minute,' he mutters, turning away and pacing out the distance across the room.

'I'm flattered,' Clint says, laughing. 'Aww, no, don't – don't do that … geez…. '

Bruce pauses in what he's doing, leaning against a workstation to stretch his back, rolling the tension out of his muscles.

'Not in that shirt,' Barton continues weakly, 'giving me too many ideas. Well, just one, but, you know…. '

Bruce feels his face heat up but he manages to compose himself by the time he turns to face Clint, which is a good thing, because otherwise he'd be crossing the room in a heartbeat.

And that would be an interesting conversation to have with Tony, if he were to walk in on them.

Not that this is something he wants to hide.

Hell.

What if Clint thinks he does though –

'Penny for them?' Clint asks.

Bruce refocuses on the amused look Clint's giving him as he watches from the chair. He's sitting cross-legged and looking totally at ease.

'Sirs, I've told Mr Stark and Captain Rogers you'll meet them in the kitchen. I thought this may give you more time,' Jarvis interjects.

'Ah, just … is it okay if we just – '

'Keep this to ourselves for now?' Clint finishes, with a tilt of his head. 'Yeah.'

* * *

As they step out of the lift onto the communal floor, Clint seems to deliberately hang back to be the last one out, and Bruce soon feels a tug at his waist. Glancing over his shoulder, he registers Clint tucking a wayward shirt hem into his waistband.

It's difficult not to smile as he heads toward the kitchen.

So he doesn't try to hide it at all.

* * *

'You know, I was expecting a welcome home party,' Tony quips with a grin, 'but at least you seem pleased we're back.'

Bruce hears Clint chuckle behind him. 'Tony,' he says warmly, as he lets himself be pulled into a hug.

'To be fair, we've only been away four days,' Steve says from the other doorway.

Oh. Steve. Right. That's … something he should've prepared for. He braces to feel some sort of … anything … as he shakes the man's hand, but nothing comes.

'Ugh, don't bring rational thought into this, Rogers,' Tony says, making a beeline for the coffee press.

'I'm just saying – ' Steve sighs. 'Hey Clint.'

'Hey man,' Clint says brightly.

Tony laughs as he looks in the fridge. 'I mean, that's a bit of an anticlimax, I was sort of hoping for – ooh, lasagne.' He pulls out a milk carton.

Bruce looks across the room to Clint, who's sitting on the bench-top while the rest of them sit round the table. Barton's looking away, but when his gaze flicks to Bruce, he grins.

So no … there's no way Bruce is going to panic around Steve. Not so long as Clint can look at him like that.

'How's the patient,' Tony says suddenly, handing out coffees to everyone. Domestic Tony is a rare sight.

'Which one?' Clint asks with a smirk, looking over at Tony.

'Well, I actually meant you, Katniss, but if you're going to give me snark, I'll go back to not caring.'

Bruce shakes his head. Tony does this a lot, acts like he doesn't care, when really he spends hours on end working out how to keep them all safe and happy.

'He's good. Healing perfectly,' he says, 'no need for the dressing, just a protective gel – '

Tony hold up his hands. 'Save it for medical, we'll head over to SHIELD soon.'

'The plan was to go right away,' Steve says with a smile and a shake of his head, 'but he wouldn't shut up about wanting real coffee. Apparently it doesn't taste right on the jet.'

'Well, it doesn't.'

'I don't even want to start on the fact that coffee machines don't belong on jets – '

Tony rolls his eyes.

Tony catches them up on where the rest of the team is and breaks down the mission into a Stark-centric version. Clint's naturally anxious about Natasha, and thankfully Tony drops his teasing tone to tell him she's remaining there for a few more days. She'd taken a hit – news which doesn't seem to surprise Clint – but was fine.

'I knew something was up,' Clint mutters.

Steve goes on to elaborate on Tony's report; Phil's staying to assist her, while his team are flying back to their own HQ presently. That last bit kicks Tony off on a mild rant about how the facilities at the tower are better. Bruce takes the opportunity to sip his coffee and let his mind wander.

Tony shuffles forward in his seat after a while, leaning over the table as if to study him. 'You wiped the footage from the chamber?'

He shifts in his seat. Of course Tony had checked if there was footage. He sees Clint bristle in his peripheral vision, likely picking up on his discomfort.

'He doesn't have to explain himself, Stark,' Clint mutters.

Tony rolls his eyes at Bruce. 'Relax, Hawkeye. This isn't an interrogation ... I was just...' his shoulders slump. 'I was worried about you, man.'

Bruce notices how Clint relaxes somewhat.

'I mean,' Tony continues after a sigh, 'six times in one hit. Even for us, that's intense. But you cracked it?' Tony, bless him, sounds nervous.

Bruce nods. 'I've got all the written data prepared.' It was true. Somehow, he'd managed to write a short thesis on his problem without ever stating the real cause. Thank goodness for the safety of equations.

'Still … six in one hit?'

He meets his friend's intense gaze and shrugs. 'It made sense at the time, and ... and it worked.' They hold the eye contact for a moment, before Tony gives the slightest of nods.

'Any idea how long 'till they clear him?' Clint asks.

Tony shrugs. 'Won't know till we get there.'

* * *

'Bet you're looking forward to fresh air,' Tony offers with a grimace, as the four of them pile into a sleek, roomy SUV. Tony's decided he wants to drive, which, well … is always an interesting experience.

Bruce decides not to mention the roof-top. It's interesting that JARVIS hasn't relayed their actions to Tony though. It really felt like the AI was in their corner on this. He wasn't sure what to make of that.

Tony drums his fingers on the wheel. 'This is nice, right?'

The drive's not that long in theory, but Tony's taking a convoluted route. Bruce suspects this is his way of letting him be outside for a while. It's actually sort of sweet.

'So ... I hear super soldiers don't really do it for you?' Tony says with a smirk, glancing at Clint in the mirror.

'Yeah, no. Not my thing.' Clint opens his window a bit. A cool breeze sweeps through the car. 'I mean, no offence Steve,' he adds with a playful tone, meeting Bruce's eye in the mirror just for a moment, his cheeks a little flushed.

There's an exaggerated sigh.

'Bet you're wishing you'd put some money on it, hey?' Tony jokes, looking at Bruce quickly. 'It's not often I'm wrong.'

His chest tightens. He wants to just stay very still, like somehow Tony won't push it then.

'Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking,' Tony continues.

He definitely doesn't know what he's thinking.

Clint picks this point to rile Tony up. 'What this? Any time you're losin' a bet, Stark, I'm interested.' He's smiling.

Bruce tries to memorise the sight.…

'We were a match-making experiment,' Steve says warmly, raising an eyebrow at Clint.

Dear god the facility is within sight. He'd even welcome alien intervention if it meant this topic could be dropped.

Bruce is conflicted over whether to sink into his chair or keep his eyes fixed on Clint in the back seat.

Tony huffs as he manoeuvres around a corner into the access ramp gate. 'I thought it'd be fun, you know Robin Hood and the boy scout.' An agent waves them through and Bruce rubs a hand over his face as they descend into the darkness of the undercover car bays.

Clint sits up a little straighter, sliding his knee off the seat. 'Yeah?'

'Yeah, and this one thought it wouldn't work.' Tony puts his hand on Bruce's shoulder just to be super clear.

'Oh?'

'So I said we should pull you both aside, become that voice in your head, you know.'

Bruce tenses at the same time as something dark flashes across Clint's features. Oh fuck. How stupidly manipulative did this sound. He knows Tony's not thought his words out, that's all, but they rattle Clint all the same. As they should.

Bruce wants to reassure him. He even starts to turn in his seat – but the car comes to an abrupt stop, and Clint's already out the door.

'That why you were always stealing Steve away during dinner?' Bruce hears Clint ask as he follows on.

'Hey, I had a plan, okay,' Tony jokes. 'At least I pulled my weight — '

'He was quite explicit. I thought, I mean … he had a vivid way of selling the idea.' Steve looks bemused, like the whole thing's no problem at all.

They all fall silent as they enter the lift to the medical floor.

There's a SHIELD agent waiting for them as the doors open. He looks familiar, someone from Phil's team. 'Doctor Banner, I've been authorised to take you through to your tests,' he glances warily at Tony, 'that is, unless Mr Stark wants to escort you himself.'

Right. He's back in the land of supervision. Actual supervision.

'I can take him,' Clint says, surprising the group. 'I've got authorisation.' He looks at the floor. 'I mean, I can pass on any information they might need from the last few days right?' The initial confidence is draining quickly from his voice. 'Just … I'll meet the rest of you in — wait, which room you want me in?'

'M-six,' the other agent answers. 'Fine. Barton, I'll tell the Doc you're on your way.'

Clint nods and steps back into the lift.

'Should I come too?' Tony asks, looking a little perplexed.

'No, it's … it's fine. I'll see you later, okay?' For some reason, he hugs Tony, which really freaks him out. 'Steve … I'm sorry about … ah, about everything. It was … it was…. '

Steve shakes his head. 'Bruce, there's no need — '

'Just, ah, just make sure Clint does what medical says.'

'Bruce?' Tony starts hesitantly….

'I'm fine. Fine. I don't know how long this'll take, that's all.' He nods his head and returns to the lift.

Clint is frowning at his own crossed arms as the doors close.

Bruce doesn't know what to say.

Clint clears his throat. 'Was that the terrible thing you kept on about?'

Bruce can't look at him. 'I'm so, so sorry — '

'Stop. Just stop.' He sighs. 'Look, I'm just — ' The doors open on their floor, and Clint goes silent.

There's a team waiting at the far end of the hall. 'It's fine, I can go from here.' He says quietly, still unable to look at Clint. 'I know it counts for nothing, but, I didn't mean to make a mess of this.'

Barton huffs. 'You didn't.'

He looks at the archer finally. And immediately wishes he hadn't. He takes a step out into the hall.

He feels Clint reach for him – just a brush of fingers around his wrist, but he flinches away.

'Bruce?' Clint says under his breath. 'Bruce, I don't know what's going through your head, but it's fine.'

He bites down on his response — that it's really not, that while he knew he'd messed up, he didn't think just how stupid he'd been — and leaves the man behind.

It was irresponsible, he thinks, as he greets the team waiting for him, to let himself be happy this morning. Especially when he knew this would all come out eventually.

He makes up his mind not to hurry these tests along.

The team can do without him for a while.


	16. Home

***** Rating changed to M *** Also, a heads up that it, ah, heats up ... not too explicitly, because that just isn't in my wheelhouse, but for those who've suffered through the slow burn of this fic, I really, really hope you like it! *****

 **This chapter jumps around in point of view, from Bruce to Clint, then back to Bruce, and ending with Clint... it's just the way it made the most sense to me at the time.**

 **I "think" this is the penultimate chapter. I contemplated splitting it up, but, no. So, here is an extra long chapter. Just one more after this.**

 **As always, t** **hank you so much to everyone who's read, subscribed, or commented! I hope you enjoy the update, and any positive feedback/comments are welcome (and always enjoyed :D )**

* * *

 **Under Supervised Conditions**

 **Chapter 16 - Home**

He stays with the SHIELD facility for close to two weeks.

Once it becomes clear there's no risk, he's told he can go to and from the tower between the tests.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he asks Tony to bring him projects to keep him occupied along with a few novels, fresh clothes — including Barton's Henley, which he must've found in his clean laundry — and a look that says _I don't understand what's going on with you, but I'll begrudgingly go along with it_.

Each day passes in a dull routine of breakfast, talking, lunch, exercising until exhaustion whilst hooked up to monitors, _more_ talking, dinner, and then a little time to read or work until he crashes with fatigue.

He wears the purple shirt a few times, the feel of the cotton against his skin making him both happy and sad, because sometimes that's the best thing you can hope for.

Every third day, the routine gets a shake-up, and he's taken to the facility's Hulk-chamber. He's relieved that the other guy doesn't mention Clint or Steve — or anything, really — in the footage. The downside is that Bruce finds himself having to explain around the reasons for the earlier incidents.

His talks with the psych are like the most awkward game of Taboo imaginable. It doesn't help that Phil sometimes sits in — though he does seem a little warmer each time.

When he's asked, 'Had you directly or indirectly been placed in a situation of undue pressure recently?' his mind offers one reply, while he blandly gives another.

'No.' He can tell more is required by Phil's raised eyebrow. 'Of course this job places me under pressure ... But it's been over three years now. It's ... normal.'

These sessions drag on as boxes on a seemingly unending form are ticked off.

Late in the second week, after what he's told is his final meeting with the psych, Phil stays on, smiling slightly. 'I don't know many people who'd consider our lifestyles normal.'

He grimaces. 'My old life would seem incredibly strange now.'

'Do you miss it?'

'No.' That's … usually true.

'Really? Not even the freedom to travel? To just ... get away from the team sometimes.'

'We travel.… ' There were conferences and missions. Sure, it wasn't like taking a holiday, but... 'But that's the thing, I like the team. I have people around me for the first time in a long time that I — '

 _Respect_.

So what's he gone and done? Shut himself away from those very people.

He shuffles in the seat.

'Bruce? Why are you here?'

He fiddles with his glasses. 'I don't know, you just came in here and started talking.'

Phil angles his head to one. 'You sound like a friend of mine.'

* * *

'I'm invisible,' Nat says dryly, watching the waiter walk on by after ignoring her wave for the bill.

'You're too good at your job,' Clint mutters dryly, shielding his eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun streaming in through the window. He waves his hand at the guy hovering by the cakes counter — the hipster who thankfully seems to have fewer and fewer shifts at his favourite cafe — who saunters over straight away.

'You know, sometimes it's a little insulting,' Nat says as they watch the guy get their bill. She shifts in her seat, 'I ran into your boyfriend the other day — '

Clint's about to choke on his words but the waiter lands their bill on the table with a huff before skulking back to the counter.

Nat smirks.

'Don't call him that,' the seriousness in his voice takes some of the smugness out of her expression. 'This isn't ... this isn't some stupid crush.'

'No, I know... Sorry. I'm not trying to make a joke of it.' She reaches over to touch the back of his hand briefly. 'I'm just sick of that guy mooning over you.'

He meets her gaze as she nods toward the counter, and can't help but grin a little.

...

They're waiting at the lights, four blocks from the tower, when the question escapes him —

'How is he?' He knows Nat's travelled over with Stark a couple times during the last couple weeks.

'Confused.' Natasha glances over to see his expression. 'Not about you.'

He raises an eyebrow.

'If it helps, I think you're as bad as each other. A good thing happens and then... ' They cross a busy intersection, sticking shoulder to shoulder so they don't lose each other in the crowd. 'I don't know what he's trying to achieve, but it's not helping either of you.'

It's not until they're within sight of the tower's main entrance that Nat speaks again. 'Will you see him?'

He hesitates, and gets elbowed by a passer-by. 'I want to.' He steps close to the building, warily eyeing off the paparazzi waiting for a glimpse of "proper" Avengers. 'I want him to come home, and I want him to realise that there's nothing to apologise for. That man and apologising ... I mean, I love the guy, but geez.'

Nat's smiling.

'I know what I said, no need to smirk.'

'Did you tell him yet?'

'Fuck no.' He shrugs, 'I mean, what if for him it's … I dunno, different?'

She considers him in that still way of hers, before pulling something flat and folded from her jacket pocket, toying with the edges. 'I wasn't going to give this to you. It ... well it got in the way of a bullet.' She hands it over and goes on through the door to the foyer.

Clint follows slowly, opening up the item as he does.

Nat's waiting at the lift. 'He asked if I could bring it back for you before we flew out.'

It's a postcard.

A terribly cheesy, furled, battle-scarred, postcard of the Northern Lights.

Clint smiles at the thing, bites his lip, and looks at her.

* * *

He's not surprised to see Natasha's back. Not really.

She's leaning in a doorway, blocking the path to his afternoon chat with Coulson. He's started to find them strangely enjoyable.

'He's not mad,' she begins, in place of pleasantries.

'Tony not with you?' he asks warily.

She shrugs, stepping aside to walk with him. 'He's not even mildly annoyed. I mean, if it were _me_? Well, I'd definitely be more than _mildly annoyed_.'

'Natasha — '

'Luckily, or, _unluckily_ , this is Clint we're talking about. You don't need to force this distance — '

'That's not what I'm doing.'

'That's exactly what you're doing.' She stops walking, and for some reason, Bruce finds himself stopping too. 'Come home, Bruce. Go in there, tell them what they need to hear, no more and no less, then come _home_.'

...

There's no fanfare, but thankfully, no lectures either.

Phil briefs him on what they'll put in the official file, and signs him out with a handshake and a considering look.

Natasha — and Tony— are waiting outside his room when he returns. He tells them he's cleared, and Tony claps him on the back. He's a little overzealous in his rush to pack away Bruce's things, already talking about his plans to celebrate. Restaurants, clubs, and bars are listed off before Bruce can get a word in.

'I just want to go home, Tony. Honestly, takeout on the flight deck would beat just about anything else right now.'

Tony begrudgingly agrees. 'You clean up and I'll sort it out.'

Bruce showers, shaves, and dresses, emerging to find all his things packed, along with a very pleased looking Tony, and a peeved Natasha.

He looks at her questioningly.

'He got carried away,' she says with an eye roll.

'Of course he did.' He picks up the last of his stuff and follows them out. 'What should I be bracing for?'

...

It's not too bad.

Tony's invited a few people around for dinner. When he hears it's Phil, Pepper, Fitz and Jemma, he finds he's okay with it.

Over dinner, and the drinks that follow, everyone seems quite content to just talk _at_ him, which suits Bruce just fine.

Pepper fills him in on how annoying Tony's gotten while he's been away.

Fitz takes him through the Greenland trip from his professional perspective.

Steve comments that whatever training regime he was doing while away seems to be working for him. Bruce can't hide his bemused reaction to what he assumes Roger's thinks is a compliment. Thankfully, Tony steps in, and Bruce slips away to the balcony, where Natasha's chatting with Jemma by the heat-lamp.

He listens to them for a while, content to lean against the railing with his wine and enjoy the hum of people nearby.

Natasha seems at ease again, though he catches her glancing inside a few times. He knows what she's looking for. He'd been looking out for the same thing. _Clint_.

The man had been a fleeting presence all night, jumping at any opportunity to keep busy.

He'd been at the other end of the table during dinner, and once they'd dispersed for drinks, he'd become near-impossible to approach.

Natasha smiles, and Bruce follows her line of sight — Steve's body language has turned humorously awkward as he talks with Tony. 'That poor man,' Nat says with a sigh, excusing herself to make her way over to the pair.

Jemma takes a sip of her wine. 'The data from your tests would make fascinating research material,' she muses.

Bruce smiles, 'Unless you're looking for a way to bottle sexual frustration, that research isn't good for anything ... Sorry. Ah, can you forget I said that?'

She nods quickly. Bruce catches the piqued curiosity in her look though.

'That true?' comes Clint's voice from somewhere close behind.

'I might … check on Fitz….' Jemma says slowly.

Bruce angles towards Clint once they're alone. 'Yes.' There's no point dancing round it at this stage.

'They put that on the official file?'

Bruce sighs. ' _Emotional imbalance, remediable_.' He looks up at the archer quickly. 'Bet you've never been called that before.'

Clint's look of surprise is too much, Bruce has to laugh.

'Me?' Clint tilts his head. 'I mean … me? I did this to you?'

'No, I did this to me.'

'But I — '

He reaches out to touch his arm. 'None of this is on you,' Bruce looks him in the eye, 'I've handled this terribly from beginning to end.'

'Yeah, you have,' Clint says flatly. Then he smiles. Fuck, that _smile_.

'You should hate me for pushing you at Steve.'

' _Pushing me_?' Clint shakes his head. 'Man, Steve and I talked this over, and yeah, Tony was in Cap's ear about me pretty fiercely. But you know what? You mentioned Steve to me like, _once_.' He shakes his head. 'If things hadn't gone the way they had, we wouldn't be here.'

'Exactly,' he sighs.

'You're not listening, we wouldn't be _here_ , with me freaking out over how to tell you I can't stand the thought of goin' to bed on my own another night.' Clint steps in closer —

'Bruce!' Tony calls, stepping out onto the balcony.

'For fuck's sake,' Clint mutters, stepping back.

Bruce chuckles, hanging his head as Tony throws an arm around his shoulder.

'Come on, you gotta circulate,' Tony says, patting him on the chest.

Bruce notices how Clint's narrowed eyes track Tony's little touches, and the idea that the archer is a little envious is both ridiculous and thrilling.

'Or if you just want some time to yourself, say the word, an' I'll send everyone home ... though I did say they could stay on the guest floor, so — '

'I've had two weeks to myself, Tony. This is ... this is good.'

Tony grins, and plants a kiss on Bruce's cheek.

Okay, now he's properly embarrassed. He catches Clint's eye, and something in fed-up expression makes him laugh, which then sets Clint off too, leaving Tony baffled.

...

It's probably only half an hour later when the group disperses. But it feels like an eternity.

He feels fantastically immature, saying goodnight and making excuses as to why he's hanging back, all the while glancing around to check where Clint is.

Eventually it's only Phil, Tony, and Pepper left with them in the lounge. They don't seem like they're going anywhere soon.

'I'll have to call it a night... ' he stands and puts his hand on Tony's shoulder. He finds himself yawning. Not planned, but oh well.

The wait at the lift is nerve-wracking.

He's just about lost his confidence when he senses someone leaning around him to call the lift.

The doors open and he follows Clint inside...

They're standing shoulder to shoulder as the lift doors close.

'I have something of – ' Bruce laughs, 'sorry, I just realised what I was about to say and it sounds like really awful pick up line.'

'Aw, I like those,' Clint drawls. 'What were you going to say?'

'I, ah, I have something in my room that belongs to you.' he shakes his head at his own words while Clint starts laughing.

'I mean, it's pretty bad, but you know what, it'll work. I had you down as a romantic, Banner, but... ' Clint shrugs and angles closer, leaning his side into the back wall of the lift.

Bruce turns to look at him. Honestly, he'd not meant it as a line, but ... the way the archer's looking at him – honest and nervous and bold all at once – he's going to do it. _He's just going to roll with it_. 'Clint – '

The lift doors open.

Right. Because neither of them actually told JARVIS where to take them.

Phil nods at them and steps in. 'Guest floor, thank you.'

The doors close and the lift moves.

Clint hangs his head with a guilty smile just as Bruce awkwardly crosses his arms.

Phil hesitates when they reach his floor, turning his head slightly but not looking at them. 'Does Tony know?' his voice is laced with a touch of humour.

There's a beat, 'Nope.' Clint says gleefully, while Bruce simply shakes his head.

Phil hums. 'I'd really like to be there when he finds out.'

* * *

It's almost like Clint blinked and missed it. One second they're exchanging a look after Phil leaves them, and the next, he's sat on the arm of Banner's lounge watching him go through the overnight bag.

Bruce pulls out a shirt, toying with the sleeve. 'Tony packed it in with my things.'

He shakes his head when Banner tries to hand it to him. 'It looks better on you.' He takes his chance and tugs at Bruce's waistband gently, looking up at him questioningly.

Bruce drops the shirt as he pulls at Clint to stand.

'Hey, don't ruin my shirt,' he mutters with a lazy grin.

'Thought you said it was mine.'

'Oh, it's still mine.' Clint picks it up and pushes it against Bruce's stomach, leaning in with his own weight too, getting them moving in the direction of the bedroom. 'I just like it better on you.' He leans forward to kiss Bruce, throwing the shirt haphazardly in the direction of the lounge, but the other man smirks and tilts his head to graze a kiss against Clint's jaw.

'Just for that, I'm never wearing it,' he says with smile. Well, Clint _feels_ the smile against his neck at least. Banner leans back to look him in the eye, 'We should probably take this slow.'

'Uh huh – ' He feels the edge of the bed knock into his leg. 'Yeah, no. Slow, got it.' Leaning in, he trails his words down the line of Bruce's throat, every syllable a new vibration against Banner's skin. 'Thing is…. ' he lifts his head back up to graze a lazy kiss against Bruce's bottom lip. 'Thing is, I don't wanna take it slow,' he kisses him properly.

There's that saying, get an inch, take a mile, and hell, Bruce does.

It's unfair really, just how natural it feels. He's already jealous of all the times he won't be able to kiss this man.

Somehow they make onto the bed without toppling over.

'I'm never letting you leave this room, Banner.'

'It's my room.'

'Well, then I'm just going to – oh – to refuse to leave.' He's caught short by Bruce rolling them over.

'I think the team might have an issue with that.' Bruce props himself up on one elbow, putting a little space between their chests.

'Fuck them.' Clint says slowly, putting emphasis on the first word to really make his intentions clear. The little push of his thigh between Banner's is just for added effect.

Bruce raises an eyebrow. Then something shifts in his expression, going from amused to wary in a flash. He closes his eyes, and Clint feels him put a bit more distance between them.

'What?'

He opens his eyes. 'Ah, we never discussed this, I mean, I don't know why we would've, but…. '

'What?'

'I, ah, I prefer to stick with mutual… You know, non-penat– '

Clint smiles as comprehension dawns on him. 'Bruce, that's fine. That's fucking perfect for me.' The other man looks skeptical.

'Really? I'm giving you an out here, because you'll get bored pretty quick if you're just humouring me.' The sad look in his eyes makes Clint's heart sink.

He closes the distance and tries to convince him without words, kissing him softly but slow, willing him to move back towards him. He reaches out to toy with the shorter hair at the back of his head, happy to lose entire minutes running his fingers through it.

Banner seems convinced, and moves back to lean over Clint, his head bowed to meet the lazy stroking though his hair. He leans into the contact every now and then, following the rhythm of the touch, which in turn drags his body against Clint's. There's a small hitch in his breath when Clint drags his fingers down the nape of his neck and around to the exposed soft skin by his collar bone.

That shirt is just a nuisance now.

His fingers fumble for space to get to the buttons. Bruce rests his weight on one hand to lend the other to the task. Together they manage to undo seven, and tear off two. Bruce becomes slightly less helpful after that – though in a very good way – leaning in to kiss him as they try and tug the shirt off him, sliding out of one sleeve at a time because Bruce won't break the kiss, until eventually it's tossed across the bed and the two loose buttons brushed away.

It seems to be a silent, collective decision that Clint's shirt is the next problem. Only, Banner has his own plan for it's removal, ignoring Clint's effort to help, and shuffling down a bit to hook his fingers under the hem and pushing it up ... slowly.

As the soft fabric drags up his stomach, it's followed by languid kisses. Some are light, some lightly grazing, but all of them drive him mad. Clint can't help but breathe shallow and uneven each time. It feels like Bruce is following little landmarks up his body, starting at his hip bones, then at a point just below his left ribs where there's a bullet scar, then along his ribs themselves. When he gets to his chest, there's a small pause, and his hands drop from the hem to run over his sides.

Clint takes over and pulls the shirt over his head, feeling Banner grip him tighter so he doesn't lose his balance.

He's enjoying the way Banner is dragging his gaze across his arms. Bruce shuffles slightly, spreading his legs just enough for Clint's thigh to rest snug against – oh.

There's a light trail being drawn down his sternum, his waist, and further still, until Bruce is palming over him. The quick look of determination Clint catches before Bruce looks down to focus on what he's doing, brings him right to the edge.

'Wait,' he says shakily, just as Banner's reaching under the waistband. 'Gimme a sec, I just ... don't want this over too quick.' He scoots up slightly, away from the friction.

Bruce rolls off him and onto his back. Clint can see him try to readjust himself through his pants in his peripheral vision. It's a pretty big reminder that this is a whole new thing for them. 'I thought you vetoed my plan for taking things slow?' Bruce says groggily.

'I was wrong.' Clint leans over on his side to just look at Bruce. He rests an arm on Banner's chest so he can idly run his thumb along his jaw and below his lip. Banner's eyes flutter closed for a while, and Clint feels his shaky breath as he continues to trace his face. He climbs over him to bracket his body around Banner's, and leans down to give what has to be his most hesitant kiss yet, but he gets the encouragement he craves when Bruce smiles. He runs his tongue under Banner's top lip then lightly tugs at his bottom lip with his teeth.

Bruce opens his eyes, looking very heavy-lidded.

Clint huffs. 'You know, I can tell when I'm doing something right when you get a bit of green in your eyes. It's fucking beautiful.' He expects Banner to protest, to freak out at the mention of going green, but he bucks up against Clint, and grabs at his shoulders to pull their bodies flush. ' _Oh_.'

Bruce lets out a low, breathy laugh.

They fall into a similar position with their legs, but Clint takes the lead this time. Banner seems absolutely fine about that, hooking one hand under his pillow, and running his other over Clint's arm.

He reaches down between them with his free hand ... and suddenly he's a bundle of nerves. Biting his lip, he runs a hand over Bruce and considers the next move. Pants. He huffs. How had they not gotten those out of the picture yet? He leans back onto his knees and strips Banner first, getting a little help from the man, who lifts his hips. Clint stands and fumbles at his own waistband. A nervous breath escapes him, but he finally gets it right and meets Bruce's unwavering gaze. His bottom lip is almost white, he's biting down on it so hard. The look does enough to knock the nerves out of him, and he climbs back over the other man, settling into their previous position, with Bruce once again reaching for his arm. This time though, Clint feels a pull, as Bruce suggests he leans forward – and he's happy to comply. They share another kiss, resting their foreheads together after, instead of pulling away.

He reaches back down between them, a little electric shock rippling through him at the feeling beneath his fingertips. It's simple enough from there. They're both hard, both ready. All he does is get their positioning right, feeling the friction increase. Banner shifts to kiss him again, and rolls his hips. They find their rhythm easily, slow and considered, and incredibly right.

Slowly, Bruce's grip on his waist twitches and tightens, and Clint's still _just_ clear-headed enough to know he wants to watch Bruce go over the edge. He'll do his fucking best to memorise it.

There's no further trace of green when he eventually does, just pupils blown wide, and a deep flush to his cheeks. His breath his ragged and Clint kisses along his neck, coming to a climax when Banner reaches between them to help. The aftershocks last a while, and Clint's too scared to speak – he knows the only words waiting to flow out are nonsensical. He falls forward to rest his cheek on the other man's chest as he feels fingers carding through his hair.

It's Bruce who breaks the silence – the fingers he'd been running through Clint's hair now drawing random patterns on his left shoulder blade. 'What're you thinking?'

Clint smiles lazily against Bruce's skin. Of _course_ he'd want to talk... 'That I'm _very_ pleased we got here. You?'

'That I hope you keep your word about never leaving this room.'

Clint chuckles, rolling off and onto his side so he can look at Bruce.

'What's next?' He's not even sure what he means by that, but he wants to ask it anyway.

Bruce hooks his hand back under the pillow. 'Start with staying here tonight? I mean, if you want – '

'I do.'

'Good, right, well, start with staying here, and then we just ... carry on like normal, except... ' Bruce worries at his lip.

'Hey, if you need time – '

'No,' Banner says firmly. 'I just... It's selfish really... '

Clint smirks. 'I get it. We can just keep this for ourselves for now. Might even be fun.' He reaches blindly for the quilt to pull up and over them. 'Although ... Nat's gonna know as soon as she sees us, you realise that, right?'

...

There's something very different in waking up together the next morning. At first there's a brief moment of doubt that the whole thing wasn't just in his head. But once Clint gets past that, he's good.

He figures it won't be an issue to use the shower, so he creeps in before Banner wakes. When he's finished, he finds the Henley in the lounge and borrows some pants out of the closet.

He's keeping busy in the kitchen when he hears Bruce in the shower. There's a temptation to join him, but ... maybe another time. It's all very new.

'Are those my trousers?'

Aw, yet another thing to commit to memory, the sight of Bruce getting ready for "work," halfway through the task of buttoning up his white shirt.

'Yeah, apparently I feel no shame in stealing your clothes. Or you food. So ... you're onto a winner.'

Bruce raises an eyebrow, then disappears for a while to put on his shoes. He returns to take the coffee Clint puts out for him.

 _So_...

No one's said anything yet...

 _I could_ , Clint thinks. But what? _Hey, are we … good?_

Yeah. Words are not his thing. He briefly wonders if maybe he'd do better writing it down.

Bruce manoeuvres around him to get to a drawer. He clears his throat. 'You were wrong last night.'

Clint tenses. 'Yeah?' _Fuck_. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

'That shirt. It looks better on you.' The drawer closes with a clunk, just as Clint registers Bruce's hand on his side.

He lets out the breath he'd been holding in, turning around to face Bruce – backing himself into the counter in the process. Bruce looks as cautious as he'd just been feeling.

'I'm going to kiss you now,' Clint announces, 'Shit, I don't know why I said that out loud... ' He quickly leans in to press a quick kiss to Banner's lips. He can feel the other man smiling as he pulls away.

'It's probably not necessary to warn me, next time.'

'Noted,' Clint scratches the back of his neck as he considers his next words…. 'More coffee?'


	17. Signing Off

**The final chapter.**

 **It's the morning after the night before, and things are finally, properly, happily on track. With the help of a battered postcard, there's no room for any doubt, as all the little breadcrumbs strewn throughout the earlier chapters are collected up.**

 **Thank you so much to everyone who's been following the story, I really hope you like the conclusion! x**

* * *

 **Under Supervised Conditions**

 **Chapter 17 - Signing Off**

'About time,' Nat says, practically with a purr in her voice, watching them over the top of her newspaper as they walk into the kitchen.  
Bruce can't help it, feeling his cheeks redden as he meets her gaze.

'We've got a briefing,' she continues, shifting her focus to Clint.

There's a sigh from the archer. 'You mean a briefing where you interrogate me about this,' he points back and forth between himself and Bruce, 'or a work one?'

'Work.'

Another sigh. 'When?'

'Five minutes ago.'

'Why didn't you tell me last night?'

'I only found out a few hours ago.' She smiles, raises an eyebrow, 'JARVIS said you were unavailable,' her expression turns positively wicked, 'he basically put up a do not disturb sign.'

Bruce feels his cheeks burn with embarrassment.

Clint turns to him, 'I'll, ah, find you later then?'

He nods.

Left alone in the kitchen, it takes him a minute to recalibrate.

Right, it's just a normal day.

What would he be doing on any other day?

Caffeine. Lab. Tony-banter.

 _Yes_.

Just ... just follow the routine.

'Ugh, what would I do without you,' Tony croons, as Bruce enters his lab with two coffees.

'I don't know which would come first, starvation or dehydration.'

'Funny.' Tony takes his mug. 'I survived your little stint at SHIELD just fine you know. And if JARVIS tries to tell you otherwise, he's lying.' He raises his free hand up in the air with a dismissive wave, 'I mean, _sure_ , I only ate "proper food" when Steve practically dragged me to the kitchen, but that's neither here nor there.'

Bruce drifts over to his preferred workbench. 'Did Steve talk to you?' he asks carefully, intrigued but not wanting to test his luck.

Tony takes a few gulps of the coffee that's surely still too hot to drink. 'In general? Sure. Why wouldn't he?' He coughs, like he's only just registered the fact he's burned his throat. 'It's odd. He's been different since the op — well, maybe since sometime during it. Not in a _oh no_ kind of way, more like an _oh … okay_ , kind of way. You know?'

'Not really, no.'

Tony shakes his head and pivots back to his work.

 _Interesting_.

He takes out a file and stares at the index. The words don't seem to register. There's something far more tempting playing in his mind.

...

'Going somewhere nice?'

Bruce startles at the sound of Tony's voice. They'd been working away quietly for the last few hours once he'd finally focused.

Clint's leaning in the doorway, dressed in a smart-casual suit, a sleek duffle bag thrown over his shoulder.

He won't lie, he practically feels his heart sink at the sight of the archer clearly about to head off on a job.

'Monte Carlo,' Clint replies flatly. 'Leaving in under an hour.'

'But you're not cleared,' Bruce says, indignant. 'I haven't signed you off, no one has.'

Barton pulls a face, swinging the bag off his shoulder and dropping it onto a near-by chair. 'Yeah, well, that was part of the meeting just now. I've got provisional clearance seeing as no one's raised concerns.' He must pick up on Bruce's discomfort, because his tone goes from resigned to reassuring, 'It's just a protection job. Three days at a conference. Straight up hired muscle, that's all, no weird shit, I swear.'

'They couldn't send Natasha?' It's a fine balancing act, having this conversation in front of Tony.

Clint smiles, 'She's coming too.'

'If it needs both of you, I'd hardly call that— '

'Day shift, night shift, that's all.' He leans against the workbench, it's about as close as they can get without it looking unusual. 'Les périls de parler couramment le français.' He props his chin on his hand, his blue eyes distractingly bright.

'I'll take your word for it.'

'Your lack of enthusiasm is frankly insulting, Merida,' Tony chips in.

'I'd say for you to take my place, but I reckon that wouldn't go down well with the crowd we're mixing with.' He catches Bruce's flash of concern and gives a shrug. 'Honestly it's just the last place I want to be going right now.'

'Well, I've got something that'll cheer you up.' Tony swipes at the tablet in his hand and brings up a 3D blueprint in the centre of the room.

Barton wanders over to stand by Stark. 'What am I looking at?'

' _Seriously?_ Aren't you named for your perceptive capabilities? No? It's a bow.'

'A compressed air bow,' Bruce adds, grinning as he takes in the details of the design rotating before them in the centre of the room. It's a beautiful piece of engineering. 'You worked it out?'

' _No..._ ' Clint's quiet for a while as he looks at the specs.

Tony's watching the archer with carefully masked eagerness. 'On paper, it works. And I've done a few builds — the early ones didn't really … well, let's not speak of those... '

Bruce recalls the burnt scrap in the workshop weeks ago.

'Holy shit,' Clint says, letting out a low whistle. 'That's ... that's something else.'

Tony pivots around to smirk at Bruce. 'Thank the Doc here, he gave me the idea.'

Clint turns to him with a grin so broad, he can't help but feel flustered.

'Actually, you mentioned it first.'

The archer pulls a face. 'Did I?' He turns back to Tony to grab his shoulder, 'Well aren't I clever.'

Clint drifts back over once Tony's talked him through the design some more.

'Hey,' he rests against the bench with folded ams. 'I've been meaning to say thanks— '

'It was all Tony's doing.'

He dips his head, 'Actually I was going to thank you for something else— ' he huffs when he catches Bruce's questioning look, '— _not_ for last night.' He shakes his head. 'I'm, ah, trying to focus on work right this second, but you're making it really hard — _don't_ — difficult.' His eyes look darker, confirming what he's saying. 'I meant for this,' he pulls a battered piece of card from his jacket pocket.

Bruce realises what it is right away. He really owes Natasha more than he can say.

He unfolds the postcard, spotting the burnt edges around a neat hole to one side of the swirling green lights. 'Is that ... is that a bullet hole?'

'What about a bullet hole?' Tony pipes up, 'Why are you whispering? No conspiring in my lab.'

'It's my lab.'

'Fine. My tower then.'

Clint doesn't bother turning around to reply, 'No one's conspiring, Stark. We normally wait for you to leave the room first, give us _some_ credit.' He rolls his eyes.

'No one's written on it,' Bruce observes quietly, 'not much of a postcard if no one's written on it.' He reaches for a pen, but Clint leans forward to grab it first, sending a stack of sealed files sliding onto the floor. Barton's quick to catch them, but the pen goes rolling off the counter and along the floor until it's stopped by Tony's boot.

'This is why we don't like you lot coming into the lab, you keep touching things. Come on, out. _Out_.'

'You can't shoo me away like a bird,' Clint replies, smirking. He pockets the postcard. 'I'm going, I'm going... ' He tilts his head, inviting Bruce to follow him out.

Once they're in the hall, Clint turns to walk backwards. 'I'm taking this with me,' he pats the card in his jacket.

'Why?'

Barton shrugs. 'Maybe I want to write on it.'

Bruce hesitates as they reach the lift. 'We really do have terrible timing.'

'Maybe.' Clint looks like he wants to say more, but he shakes his head and clears his throat, reaching out to pull Bruce into the lift with him instead. 'J, hold the lift for a minute?'

Bruce leans against the rail. 'I'd say "stay safe" but I know that's just ridiculous.'

Clint offers him a lop-sided smile as he drops the duffle bag and leans into his shoulder. 'I don't actually have to go straight away,' he says quietly. 'Just ... it's too tempting to keep putting it off and stay until later, and by then I _really_ wouldn't want to go.'

Bruce shifts to face him. He's become far too familiar with Clint's features in the unusual lighting of the lift. 'Three days?'

'Three days.' Clint reaches up to toy with the collar of Bruce's shirt.

...

He sees Clint off at the lift, deciding not to travel down to the garage for the same reason Clint wanted to leave sooner rather than later.

'Tony... ' His friend's hunched over a sketch, idly twirling a pencil between his fingers.

'Mmhmm?'

'Thank you. For the bow. Clint's — Barton's bow.' He straightens his glasses. 'I didn't know you were going to work on it, I would've helped.'

'You did. JARVIS told me where to find your other notes on it.' Tony pauses, frowning as he looks up at the holo-screen. 'You know, it's weird. He won't tell me anything about what happened while we were away, but he _will_ point me in the direction of your notes— '

'I like him.'

'JARVIS? He has his uses.'

'No, Clint.' His heart rate's fluttering.

'Yeah? Well I guess he has his good points too.'

The nerves finally kick in, and he knows his voice is going to betray him, so he just nods.

* * *

The three days don't exactly fly by, but they're far from torturous. Clint's frequent texts about how dull the job is are more than welcome though.

He makes time to go outside each day, enjoying the brisk air and the first signs of the festive season creeping into the city.

It's the nights that become a problem.

His bed, which had always felt just fine, suddenly seems like it was always made for two, and no matter how he arranges himself on the mattress, there's still a space he can't fill.

...

Come the evening of day three, Bruce is waiting in the lounge with Tony when Natasha and Clint return.

He feels his pulse jump when Barton casts a look sideways as he drops his bag and makes a beeline towards him.

'Hey.'

Bruce reaches for his glasses, but crosses his arms instead. 'Hey.'

They both glance at Natasha, who's talking to Tony, but seems to hear their silent request, and easily shepherds Tony away out of view.

'I'm glad you're home,' he says lightly.

'Yeah?' Clint raises an eyebrow.

'Of course,' he replies. He's intending to say more but Clint knocks him off balance with a hug, arms wrapping easily around his shoulders and neck. He bites back a laugh and pulls his arms free to wrap around Clint's waist, swaying them both on the spot.

It was meant to be another bonding night, getting everyone together for a couple of films, just to wind down now everyone was back in the tower, but as it often did, it turned into a rowdy conversation about something completely irrelevant.

Bruce would probably blame Tony for starting it. Nothing unusual there, either. He'd started talking about all the cities he'd been to, judging them based on the night-life, debating himself and anyone who would listen over whether to put Monte Carlo at the top of his list.

'I really don't think that's the main reason people travel,' Steve says skeptically.

Tony makes a dismissive noise. 'Just because you only travel for work doesn't mean you can't have some fun, Rogers,' he nudges Steve in the rib, which gets him a wary glare. 'Come on, there must be a few full passports between our super-spies here,' he adds, nodding at Natasha and Clint. 'Any holiday highlights?'

'Our "holidays" either involve a contract or trespass,' Natasha says flatly, reaching for her drink.

'Or kidnap.' Clint adds lightly. 'I've seen some interesting places that way.'

Bruce frowns, 'Are you … are you the one _doing_ the kidnapping, or the one _being_ kidnapped?'

'Usually the last one.' Clint says with a fond look, hooking an arm over the back of the lounge, making light yet deliberate contact with Bruce's shoulder for just a moment.

'Yeah, but you still find time to steal souvenirs,' Tony jokes, 'I saw you at the hotel, Romanov. What'd you need a postcard for anyway?'

'I paid for that.' She turns to Bruce and Clint with wide eyes. ' _I did_.'

' _Bruce_ , you're a man of the world…. ' Tony says, reaching a hand out towards him like he was a piece of physical evidence. 'Be our travel guide.'

'Again, I wouldn't confuse running from the army with sightseeing.' He feels a light touch on his back again, though this time it stays.

'Ugh. None of you are any fun tonight.' Tony shifts in his seat, turning the volume of the television down just a touch. 'Alright, forget all that, where _would_ you go? I mean, okay, say you _quit_ the team, where do you go, what do you do? Bruce, name it, what's the grand plan?'

'Well, I mean…. ' He thinks it over. It's not like he hadn't considered it, despite how unlikely it was that he'd ever be able to leave the team completely. But there was one plan he'd sort of latched onto, filing it away as something almost possible, almost attainable. 'I'd go somewhere quiet, somewhere green … I could fix up a place, build a workshop and a garden…. ' Tony's already stopped listening, moving on to quiz Steve, but Clint turns to him with the most unashamedly happy look. It makes his face go hot.

'Yeah?' Clint says, his eyes bight.

Bruce shrugs and smiles, his eyes tracking over Clint's face.

He's reminded of a line from the great Gatsby. He may as well have said _I love you_.

When it becomes obvious to Tony that his questions are going nowhere, they settle back in to watch the rest of the film.

It's only a short time later, as he's barely taking in a word of the movie while he thinks about what he wants to say to Clint later, that he realises the fingers that had been drawing aimless circles under the collar of his shirt, are now drumming silently but impatiently against the backrest. When he looks over at Barton, he's distractedly scratching his thumb against his chin.

He's about to say something, but Clint springs up from the chair and moves away to the kitchen.

Okay, well...

When he doesn't return in the following ten minutes, Bruce turns to Natasha. With a shake of her head, she quietly slips away to follow her friend. She returns a few minutes later, resting a hand on Bruce's shoulder. He tries to catch her eye when she sits down in her armchair, but she's determined to focus on the film, a smile occasionally threatening to stretch across her content expression.

Now he's not sure which is more alarming; Clint's sudden absence, or Natasha's reaction to it.

Next comes the sound of drawers opening and closing. He sees Steve look back towards to kitchen with confusion, eventually going over, only to return a minute later to retrieve a pen from the coffee table and take it into the kitchen. There's a short laugh, and muffled conversation, then Steve returns.

It's only when the credits role that Clint comes back. He's still fidgety.

Bruce notices the exchange of looks between Natasha, Steve, and Clint.

It's Tony who puts and end to it. 'JARVIS, bring the lights up.' He stands. ' _What is going on?_ Katniss, you're freaking me out with all your squirming.' He looks around at them all. ' _What?'_

'Tony,' Steve says quietly, in a tone that's clearly politely asking him to drop it.

Tony puts his hands up, 'What, I'm just asking. Barton?'

Bruce tenses, and Natasha briefly lays a reassuring hand on his leg as she stands. 'It's been a long day. We're just... ' she looks over at Clint, 'we're just tired. I'm going to call it a night.'

Steve clears his throat and stands. 'I think that's a good idea. Tony?'

'What? You're not serious?'

It's almost amusing just how quickly Natasha and Steve leave, both looking annoyed that they can't drag Tony out with them.

'I'm going to get some fresh air,' Clint announces, somehow sounding skeptical. He holds something folded out to Bruce, offering it up like a business card, a sort of take it or leave it gesture. 'I'll be on the roof,' he adds hesitantly as he leaves.

'Something's going on,' Tony looks to Bruce for back-up.

He glances down at the postcard, now folded over twice and feathered at the corners. There's a smudge of ink along the edges by the picture. He opens it just enough to register that there's writing — a lot of writing — on the other side.

He can't decide whether to hide it away or read it on the spot.

Tony's distracted, grumbling as he collects up the plates and glasses spread across the coffee tables, so Bruce unfolds the card. The script is cramped and fills the space entirely;

 _This thing's been burning a hole in my pocket for 3 days. That doesn't sound right. Anyway, I was sitting there I realised I had to say this and say it right this second but then I didn't know what to do because – damn it I'm running out of space. should've written smaller._ (The text gets very small) so _I figured I could write it down instead. You're better with knowing what to say. That's ok. I can shoot arrows. to each their own and all that. I know in a way this is all sort of recent, but it doesn't feel like it is. not really. and maybe it's not at all. this past month has been the most confusing, frustrating time but also the best. I_ (the pen changes colour) _don't want to not be with you. I swear I had a better line planned there but the fucking pen ran out and now I'm just pissed about how messy this thing looks. But that's probably a good description of us right? We're a mess. We've been crumpled up and shot at and we're still here and we're honest about it. I'm actually pretty proud of that comparison. Fuck it, I've actually run out of space. Basically all I_ (Bruce turns the card over and realises the dark markings around the edge of the picture are tiny words) _wanted to say was I love you. Ha! I said it! sort of. And now I actually have to pass this to you and I'm a bit terrified – CB aka the amazing Hawkeye, just in case you'd forgotten. sorry, I don't know why I added that last bit._

Bruce leans forward in his chair, one hand barely covering his wide grin, the other toying with the postcard.

'Bruce?' Tony's staring right at him, clearly concerned.

'I, ah, have to tell you something,' he folds the card up and slips it into his pocket. 'Clint and I... ' Hell, what's the right word for it?

Apparently he doesn't need to worry about finding the right word though, judging by Tony's dawning comprehension. ' _Huh_.' He shifts his weight. 'It's not Stockholm syndrome is it?'

Bruce chokes on a laugh. 'No. _No_.'

'I mean ... I could tell something was different. I just... '

He has to take a moment to recognise how strange it is too see his closest friend at a loss for words.

'You _really_ had no idea?' Bruce asks, certain that Tony's going to slip into teasing mode any second now. 'Natasha knows. Actually, she knew before we did. And I think Steve just figured it out. Phil just sort of put two and two together.'

Okay, that seems to make Tony bristle. 'Seriously? Coulson knows?'

'I thought perhaps ... with the bow and all?'

' _Yeah_ , _well..._ like I said, I could tell you were getting along, but I figured since he'd been looking after you, the least I could do was look into the bow — fuck, _looking after you._... Don't tell me that's why JARVIS won't tell me anything about what happened while I was away, because you two were— '

' _No,_ no... There wasn't anything ...well not like that. I mean, we... ' he shakes his head before the rambling gives too much away. He feels himself start to smile and covers his face.

'Hell, look at you, you're serious! You actually like him.'

'I actually do.' He laughs, but it sounds a little strangled and wet. No, no, no, there's already enough emotions in play, he doesn't need another. 'I think it's gone way beyond that point, but yes.'

Tony gives him a very confused look, like he's not sure whether to smile or laugh or tease him. Eventually he pulls him in for a hug.

'You know, I'm a little hurt,' Tony says teasingly. 'I mean, _I'm pleased ..._ I think. But mainly hurt.' He steps back. 'And you're happy?'

'Disgustingly so.'

'Well ... then I'm happy too. Jesus, Brucey... You're a quiet one, aren't you.'

* * *

The heavy door leading out to the roof has been propped open, framing Bruce's view of the archer as he leans against the guard rail.

'Clint,' he calls, his voice carried away in the cool night breeze.

It's not until he steps closer that Barton turns around. 'Hey,' he watches warily as Bruce takes his place by his side. Neither of them had thought to bring coats. 'You read it?'

Bruce tilts his head as if to say _of course I did._ He just looks at the other man for a moment, simultaneously amused and thankful that they've ended up out here again.

'When you said that thing about finding a place to fix up ... I know it's unlikely, I mean, this isn't really a job you choose to leave,' Clint sighs, looking down at his hands gripping the railing. 'I meant what I wrote.'

'Good.' He leans into him just that little bit more, 'I meant what I said.'

Clint's grinning as he releases his grip on the rail to instead grab Bruce's hands, guiding them back to the door.

He hesitates, stoping them both in their tracks. 'Tony knows. I just ... I wanted him to know.'

'S'okay, I get it.' Clint smiles at him. 'Steve sorta guessed earlier.'

'I figured.'

'So that's everyone now. Well, pretty much. How you feelin' about it?'

'About the team knowing?' Bruce takes a moment to be sure of his answer. 'Relieved.' He didn't think he would be, but he really is. 'You?'

'Yeah ... excited. I mean, I was ready to shout it from the rooftop two weeks ago, so... ' Clint grins and jerks away like he's returning to the railing to do just that, but Bruce tugs him back, laughing.

He closes the space between them and kisses him slowly, almost drowsy with how relaxed he feels. He pulls back just a little, and at first Clint doesn't let him go easy, following him with a dragging kiss of his own. Bruce reluctantly pulls away again, well aware of the bedroom-eyes the archer's giving him, now they're caught in the light spilling out from inside. 'Move in with me.' The question had been rattling around in his mind for days. In the end it wasn't too hard to ask out loud.

'Serious?' Clint leans back, tightening his grip on Bruce's arm to steady himself.

'My floor, your floor, a new one, I don't care, I don't want to waste any more time not, not— '

'I wanna move into your place.' Barton's tone is steady.

He wasn't anticipating such a quick decision. 'But you love your suite ... that view.'

Clint laughs, shakes his head. 'View's just fine if you're in it.'

Bruce groans. 'That's terrible. That's _actually_ the worst thing you've ever said.'

'Aw, come on, you knew what you were in for.' Clint drags his hands down to Bruce's belt, working on untucking his shirt.

'I did,' Bruce says, reaching down to take Clint's hands, moving backwards to guide them through the door. 'Starting to regret my decision... '

Clint hums. 'Well ... too bad, you're stuck with me now.' He leans in to close the distance between them.


End file.
